Is It Truly Far From the Tree?
by ETNRL4L
Summary: "He'd be a good surrogate father to them if worse came to worse. As she turned back to face the mine, she tried to squash that growing premonition in the back of her mind that kept telling her she was about to test that theory." This is a little character study on the Hawthorne family. I've never seen it before, so I decided to write it. Please Read and Review!
1. A Promise Born of Rage and Despair

**A/N: This is an experiment. I have never seen this done before this way in this fandom with the Hawthornes, so I was intrigued to try it. **

**I want to acknowledge silvercistern, as I have used her name for Gale's father in this and she is certainly a source of inspiration to me.  
**

**Disclaimer:The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Hey, Everdeen! I don't mean to sound like a jerk here, but the humming is grating on my nerves!"

The statuesque man did an exceedingly poor job of disguising the mischief dancing in the platinum depths of his Seam eyes, the half dozen men surrounding him and the target of his ludicrous witticism snickering in response, as the irony of the hyperbole was not lost on any of them.

"Ugh, Hawthorne! Jealousy is so unbecoming of you. Really, it makes you hideous!" The corresponding bout of boisterous laughter to this rebuttal actually seemed to make the cavern the men were currently excavating reverberate ominously. This, in turn, made the mirth cease abruptly.

Looking around warily, the august, marginally older man continued tenuously, in a much softer voice to his friend, "What has you in such a great mood anyway? You figure out a way out of this deathtrap?"

Setting down the auger he'd been taking to the rock face, his younger counterpart turned an impossibly radiant smile, swiping the back of his wrist across his sweat-streaked brow. "My girl brought down three rabbits yesterday. Didn't even need my help. Just pointed and shot. Clean, too. I'm telling you, Jasper, that girl's going to be something with that bow in a few years…"

Letting out a mock-amused scoff, the taller man slapped his friend on the back. "Well, I'm glad your replacement son is working out so well for you."

Immediately shrugging the offensive hand off, the kneeling man stood to his full height and graced the other with a withering sneer. "Katniss _is not_ a 'replacement son', Hawthorne! Neither of my girls are and you darn well know that! She loves going out there with me! It's like she's a creature of that forest herself, for God's sake! You're such an arrogant bastard! Just because all Hazelle pops out are boys, don't mean they're a lick better than my girls! I'll wager my Katniss can outrun, outshoot, out-" He stopped short, narrowing his eyes in irritation at the low chuckle emanating from the taller man.

Letting out an exasperated breath, he leaned back down to pick up his auger. "How far along is Hazelle with your fourth kid again, Jasper? Don't you think it's about time you started acting older than your oldest boy?"

Giving a callous shrug of one shoulder while shoving off the wall in the direction of the cart to unload the massive boulder in his hands, the elder Seam man shot over his shoulder, casually, "I don't see that happening even if I'm seventy, Spruce. That kid outgrew me maturity-wise once he turned six. I think he gets it from his momma, 'cause lord knows, he ain't get that from the likes of _me_. And, I wouldn't take you up on that bet about him outrunning your girl, but I'll wager he can outthink her any day of the week! He's sharp as the business end of my knife, that kid! All I had to do was take him out and teach him three or four basic snares… he's got about fifteen variations out there! He's got traps for everything from gofers to lynxes! Kid's got and amazing instinct for figuring out the weaknesses in animals and using them to his advantage- not even I coulda taught 'im that…"

"So… have either of you mentioned to them that they could be flogged or hanged for these little forages into the woods you take them on?"

Both men turned to another member of their crew, who was gracing them with a knowing half smirk, while leaning casually on the end of his pick and eying them expectantly.

Before they could conjure up a response to the thinly veiled accusation, however, another member of their crew- a broad, burly monster of a man by Seam standards, turned heated eyes on the instigator, spitting out defiantly, "Don't be stupid, Ezra. Every child in the district learns the consequences of crossing that fence the moment they set foot in a classroom! We all saw it before Cray came along! My boy came home terrified his first day of school, 'cause some older boys told him about when all three Harrison brothers were strung up for poaching and he's already out of Reaping age. These kids know what they're signing up for going out there and you're a jerk for putting Jasper and Spruce on the spot like that! Don't try to make yourself feel like any less of a coward for not doing it yourself by making them feel raw 'bout bringing their kids in on it. At least, these youngins have a way of helping their families not to starve!"

Ezra had the decency to lower his eyes and return to his task after that, murmuring a barely discernible apology before turning away.

Considering the subject tabled, the older man turned back to his friend with another wisecrack on the tip of his tongue, when suddenly he froze at the feel of the rock shifting violently under his boots. They both exchanged horrified looks before training their eyes on the rest of the crew, who were already dropping their tools and getting up to move toward the exit of the tunnel.

They'd all felt the tremors before. They were commonplace in the mines. After centuries of excavation, the depth at which they were forced to dig, made the caverns highly unstable and excavating them far more prone to accidentally puncturing highly volatile gas pockets.

They were the only crew working this far down in the tunnels, however, and they knew it wasn't_ them_ who hit the pocket. That meant whoever punctured the seam that was causing this collapse was above them.

And every level below _that_ was coming down on them within the next few seconds.

As the men made a frantic dash through the two hundred yards of cracking, splitting rock face for the elevator shaft, their headlamps only barely making a dent in the ever-increasing dust and ash- they also became keenly aware of the exponentially rising temperature.

Then, they saw it.

Thirty feet from where they stood was the shaft that should have been their salvation, only from it descended a wall of brilliant blue-white flame, its edges the color of the sun itself.

The inferno's surge was so subitaneous, their minds barely had time to register those final thoughts…

…the unvoiced pleas that their families would find a way to survive without them.

* * *

She moved as swiftly as her swollen feet and ankles would propel her through the moist ground.

What she'd been capable of doing for the past eight weeks could hardly be called walking so much as waddling, after all. However, the instant she'd heard the siren indicating there'd been a collapse in the mines, she'd taken off at her top speed.

There was already a crowd congregated at the entrance to the caves as she approached. It seemed as if the entire town was already there and she inwardly cursed her current condition for making her so sluggish.

She started circling the amassed crowd, looking for that familiar lanky frame, instead. It didn't take her long to find him. He was looking for her, too- his seven-year-old brother propped on one of his hips and held securely in one arm while his five-year-old baby brother sat high on his shoulders, sobbing quietly at the commotion.

Even amidst the uncertainty of the chaos surrounding them, she couldn't help looking upon her eldest with proud fondness the moment they met up. This boy had proven to be special. He'd made it through his first Reaping two summers ago with six slips in that bowl to his name. He'd stood straight and proud, a full head taller than all the other twelve-year-old boys around him, who seamed even more diminutive, sniveling in fear of being called. He was brilliant and strong-willed, that boy. She could see why his brothers so worshipped him.

Turning her gaze from her boys to survey the seemingly impenetrable wall of anxious bystanders, she let out a slow, exasperated whistle. "Looks like it'll be a while before we know what happened to your pa…"

The fourteen-year-old swept his steel gaze over the congregated onlookers briefly before replying with fiery conviction, "If you want to get through to the front, Ma, I can get you through. Just say the word."

She snapped her eyes to lock with his, searching for a trace of jest in that previous statement. Upon finding none, her brow furrowed into a chastising scowl. "Gale Hawthorne, I'll not have you bullying your way through a mass of terrified people, you here me?" She realized the statement was voiced with undo harshness when the boy winced in response.

Her hand immediately shot up to smooth over her oldest son's cheek in apology at the sudden outburst. Her hormones were simply getting the best of her these days. Letting out a tired sigh she added softly, "It won't change the outcome where we are when they pull him out of that mine, anyway. As the survivors come up, the crowds will thin. We just have to wait it out…"

Placing his one unoccupied hand over the one his mother held to his face, the Seam boy huffed out frustrated, "You can't stay on your feet that long, Ma. What if it takes hours?"

Hazelle stroked her protruding middle thoughtfully before responding with a hopeful smile. "Then, you go back home and get me a chair and some blankets so this little one won't make me too uncomfortable while we wait."

Gale sent another hesitant look in the direction of the mines. "What if they pull him out while I'm gone? He'll think I wasn't here to meet him."

At this, the Seam woman couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. He was so big for his age; it was so easy to forget this boy was still so very, very young. She could understand him innocently wanting his father to know he was worried for his safety. She graced him with the brightest smile she could muster. "I'll tell you what, then: you make it home and back here as quick as you can. And, on the off chance your daddy makes it out while you're gone, I'll distract him until you get back so he never realizes you ain't even here. Sound fair?"

Even though one of his dark eyebrows shot up in clear indication of his skepticism of her reply- her boy was no fool, after all- one end of his mouth still quirked up in an unbidden smirk, as he nodded his assent.

"I wanna stay here with momma!" Tiny Vick finally decided he remembered how to speak through the wailing.

"Me, too!" Of course, Rory was not about to be outdone in the inappropriately timed petulance department by his younger brother.

"Heck, no! Ma can't carry either of you and stay on her feet! You're both coming with me!"

Hazelle allowed a sad smile to split her features as both her youngest boys started crying and struggling against their older brother, who adamantly carried them off in the direction of their home.

He'd be a good surrogate father to them if worse came to worse.

As she turned back to face the mine, she tried to squash that growing premonition in the back of her mind that kept telling her she was about to test that theory.

* * *

The Seam fourteen-year-old stood on that stage as Major Undersee prattled on about bravery and honor and lord-knows-what else.

Truth be told, he was too terrified out of his wits, too stricken with grief and too hollow with loss to be bothered with paying attention to whatever empty platitudes the major of this backwater nightmare of a district that had murdered his father could possibly offer.

He was also so very angry.

Standing there, next to his very pregnant, very recently widowed mother- he felt a righteous indignation flow through his veins like burning lava… all-consuming and oh-so-dangerous.

He was livid at the reality that- ever since that explosion at the mines- his mother cried herself to sleep at night when she thought he was asleep, enraged that his baby brothers asked when their pa was coming home and he was stuck with the impossible task of explaining the infinity of death to them.

It was just too unfathomable- the sheer unfairness of it all.

Then, he ventured a look at the other families that formed this pitiful showcase of the felled miners' bereft and his stomach plummeted impossibly even further.

He hadn't realized the healer lost her husband in the collapse, as well! She appeared bloody despondent!

This was not good!

His mother was about a minute away from giving birth! This woman was the only person he knew to turn to if either the baby or his ma didn't do well during the delivery! She barely looked aware of her surroundings!

As panic surged up within him, he began to quickly assess his alternatives.

If the baby was ill and passed away, it was one less mouth to feed. He cringed at the coldness of that thought, but he had to be practical as much at it'd hurt to lose a baby sibling that way. They'd just lost their father. They couldn't afford to be too sentimental right now.

If he lost his ma… he swallowed hard the sob _that_ particular thought instantly evoked, furiously fighting back tears. If he lost his ma and the baby lived, he could always find a nursing mother to feed the baby in exchange for game.

If they both died during the birth… well, then he, Vick and Rory would go to the community home. He'd protect them there, same as he always had. He'd figure out a way to get out to the woods to forage and hunt.

He'd keep them alive. He owed his father that much.

Once his mind settled on an adequate contingency strategy for his family's survival, should the worst happen during his mother's labor, his steel eyes traveled to the traumatized healer's children.

Whoa! This family was in rough shape!

The eldest daughter was a tiny, barely there wisp of a girl, who looked petrified to have so many eyes on her and clung to the shell of what was once her mother as if tugging on her would bring her back to her senses. The youngest had a knowing, pained expression no seven-year-old should ever wear. She looked as fragile as a glass doll.

The Everdeens were dead.

Pity, too. His dad had introduced him to their father once in the Hob. He was a darn decent man.

As his eyes surveyed the other six families, he realized only one was capable of maintaining themselves properly without the support of the breadwinning patriarch, since the eldest son was just out of Reaping age and could work in the mines. Either all the others had children who were too young to take tesserae, were only composed of an elderly widow, or now only had orphans destined for the community home.

In that instant, he made a promise to himself to keep his family alive, no matter the cost.

He would make for the woods every day after school. He could triple or quadruple his snare lines. He wasn't afraid- not if it meant food for his brothers. His father had taken him to the Hob enough that he knew how to bargain a trade well enough. If he was any example, his brothers would start growing like weeds soon. They'd need shoes, fabric and thread for clothes- an ever existing demand for nourishment that his measly ration of tesserae grain and oil would never satisfy…

As he stepped forward to accept the medal from the major for having his father entombed within the bowels of that mine because of the despicable demands of some faceless Capitol, one determined thought ran through his mind, pulsing with the same intensity as the rage flowing though his veins…

'_It's okay, Pa. I **will** find a way for us to survive without you…_'

* * *

**A/N: For now, this is a one-shot. I have a few ideas as to how I could continue this. However, as with all my stuff, since I'm so busy with my actual work and life, I will only continue this if I get an encouraging response. Therefore, if the idea of what I'm doing here intrigues you and you would like to read more…**

**Please Review! **


	2. A Shadow Worth Aspiring to Dwell Beneath

**I want to dedicate this installment to ****fistfulofhearts, who kindly chose to recommend my Mellark Legacy series on her blog on Tumblr, 'everlarkrecs'. I'm not even on Tumblr myself to give a proper thanks, so this is the next best thing I could come up with. You wanted a 'Rosy the Riveter' Hazelle? Well… I think you'll like this. Let me know if you want more.**

**Disclaimer:The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Hazelle and her oldest figured it'd be difficult to get on once her Jasper passed. However, they never quite imagined finding themselves in this particular situation seventeen days after being told their family's patriarch was never coming out of that mine.

The district was being barraged by a snowstorm that had lasted for the last three days and showed no sign of letting up. There was no way for Gale to make it out to find the midwife and his mother had been in labor for at least sixteen hours that he was aware of.

The fourteen-year-old was horrified.

He'd spent better part of the day attempting to keep his brothers distracted by playing the rowdiest games their combined juvenile minds could conjure up within the confines of their tiny home in an effort to impede them from hearing the agonized moans their mother tried to muffle into the blankets when her contractions hit from the opposing room. The boys were already having fevered nightmares about explosions and death and being entombed in darkened earth, a consequence of coming to grips with their father's death. Their older brother really didn't want them any further traumatized by learning first-hand the gory realities of human procreation.

In the end, however, he resorted to giving them both cups of tea with sleep serum to get them out of the way long enough to deal with their mother.

They were currently blissfully unaware of the pained screams emanating from the Seam woman in the next room, who with her upper body braced entirely against her oldest boy, held her legs apart with her hands under the bend of her knees, bearing down with all her strength.

Gale had no idea if the amount of blood that seemed to emanate endlessly from her was normal. He'd never heard her make such anguished sounds. He tried his best to comfort her in between contractions, reminding her to breathe as deeply as she could, like she'd instructed him to do for days prior. Beyond that, he was at a complete loss, felt utterly useless and was fairly certain his ma was freaking dying in his arms.

After about the third push, the boy saw his mother move one of her hands away from her legs to place it between her legs. With an exhausted gasp, she turned weary, red-rimmed eyes to him. "I'm crowning, Gale. The baby will be out with the next big push. You need to go around and catch it in the blanket for me. Can you do that for me, baby boy?"

The Seam teenager wasn't at all sure he _could_ do that, in all honesty. However, his mother _needed_ him to do this. There simply was no one else…

He carefully moved from behind her on the bed to position himself between her legs. He tried to look at her face to avoid looking at the bloody mess that was presently the juncture of her thighs. Even so, he felt his dinner trying to make a reappearance and his entire body's apportioning of blood rushing to his head.

God! He really hoped he didn't faint! Who'd help his ma if he fainted now?

He didn't have much time to dwell on that particular fear as his mother let out another almost feral scream and pushed while pulling back on her legs. Within seconds, what looked like a bloody blue/black bubble with bits of something he could only identify as scaly or veiny and gross-looking, sort of oozed out of her body from where all the other blood was. He stared down at it dumbly, going a bit green around the gills.

"You need to help the kid out, Gale," his mother grated out tiredly. "Pull the head gently until you see the shoulders, then you can grab those to hoist it out all the way."

Hesitant for a second to touch the bloody mess, the boy quickly gathered up the courage to do as his mother indicated. Curiously, he found the baby slid out rather easily once the shoulders were out. He immediately placed the screeching, squirming, fleshy, little thing on the clean blanket next to his mother's hips and started cleaning the blood off with another clean towel.

"Do we have a boy or a girl?"

Gale looked up from what he'd been doing to see his mother was bracing herself on one elbow and held a pair of scissors in her other hand, the latter outstretched toward him.

There must have been obvious confusion written on his face, because she let out a bedraggled, amused scoff before explaining, "Little ones can't stay attached, baby boy." She accentuated this with a pointed look at the umbilical cord.

Feeling five degrees of stupid, the teenager took the scissors and cut the cord before looking back at his mother questioningly, "Ain't we supposed to tie it off or something? It doesn't look right this long. Mine ain't this long. She's a girl, by the way." He added a grin to this last part, handing the swaddled infant over to his mother.

Hazelle gave her best attempt at a stern look his way, but was unable to keep the mirth out of her exhausted silver eyes, "I'm hoping you know that because of what's missing and not because of practical experience, young man." She then went about tying the newborn's cord into a tight knot, as close to her bellybutton as she could manage.

Her oldest boy cringed at the insinuation in her question. "Yeah… after what I've just seen, Ma, that's probably the furthest thing from my mind. And likely will be for a good long time, at that."

The Seam woman quirked a bemused dark eyebrow at him before stating almost mockingly, "Well, I'm certainly very glad to hear that. That kinda thinking won't get you anything but trouble, anyhow. Just look at me. Four of you 'cause I never did figure out how to say 'no' to your pa." She then added with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "Now take your baby sister, 'cause you have to help me deliver the afterbirth."

And _here_ is where dinner made its reappearance.

* * *

"Is it even healthy for you to go out looking for work so soon, Ma?"

The Seam woman shrugged one shoulder casually, pulling her infant daughter away from her chest and doing the buttons up with the practiced ease of a woman who'd done this with three previous children in her lifetime. She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, "Ain't much choice in the matter, Gale. The stipend the government allotted us for your daddy's passing's almost gone. It's dead of winter. Most animals are hibernating. You're good out there, baby boy, but there's just not enough to be had- not that it should fall on you to provide for all of us single-handed. You're still just a boy. I need to go out and make a way for us."

The rage that swelled within the fourteen-year-old at his mother's simple words was almost suffocating. He was a failure. He was supposed to take care of them and he couldn't. Now, five days after giving birth to his baby sister, his mother was relegated to going into the streets to find work- doing what, exactly? The mines were out of the question with a newborn in tow. What was his mother going to do?

He had to figure out a way for them not to starve. He just had to think harder. There had to be another way…

He hadn't realized how his breathing had quickened or the fact that he was physically trembling from the anger until his mother pulled him into an embrace, apparently realizing how upset he was becoming. Hopelessly unable to discern any course that would prevent the woman who held him from having to go out into the bitter cold today, he resigned himself to bury his face in the crook of her neck like he did when he was still, well, little. He inwardly mused, that at least physically, this had not been in the last couple of years.

When he pulled back, his brow creased in confusion at the stain of moisture on the woman's shirt where his face had just been and the thumbs that gently rubbed at his cheeks right beneath his steel eyes.

Had he been crying? When had he started crying? Oh, for God's sake! He was sputtering like an infant in front of his mother!

Mortified, the teenager dropped his gaze to his boots, trying to pull away.

His mother, however, was having none of that. Forcefully planting both hands on either side of his face, she forced him to lock eyes with hers. He found himself entranced by the shared grief, loss, anger and determination he found in those eyes so unlike his own. He had his pa's eyes. Everyone said he was his daddy's spitting image when he'd been younger.

"You listen to me, Gale Hawthorne." He found the edge to his mother's voice jolted him out of the trance as if he'd been doused in snow water. "Ain't no shame in crying about what's been taken from you. The loss of a man like Jasper deserves to be mourned proper. He was a great man. He deserves better than you foolishly choosing bravery over missing him. You cry if you have to. Ain't no shame in a man crying over losing his daddy- really ain't no shame in a man crying when there's real emotion in his heart worth shedding those tears over, at all. And besides, you ain't even close to being a man yet, baby boy. You go ahead and let go of every tear that man deserves from you, 'cause he darn well earned it."

She didn't stop the tears that flowed freely from her eyes either, adding in a softer voice, "As for my going out to find me some work? Well, me and you, we're going to have something of a partnership. You help _me_ out when you can and I'll help you out when _I_ can. That's how things are gonna work here. I can't have you worrying yourself sick about all of us when there ain't nothing you can do. So, I want you to get your brothers to school, check the snares after and let me worry about Posy and the rest. I take half and you take half. Sound fair?"

No. It didn't sound fair, at all. Nothing about this waking nightmare the last month of their lives had become was fair. However, this was obviously how it had to be. He was hardly going to be difficult to the woman who'd given him life about it.

"Yes, ma'am," he assented grudgingly in a voice that bellied deep respect and adoration, as he wiped the tears off her face the way she'd done for him moments prior. Then, turning away from her, he hollered in the direction of the room he shared with both his baby brothers, "Vick, Rory! Get your butts up! You're going to be late for school!"

* * *

"Take it back!" The five-year-old shoved his older brother viciously, catching the bigger boy completely off guard and sending him plummeting into the snow in a graceless heap.

In what seemed to take less than a breath, the seven-year-old had corrected himself, lunging at the younger boy and wrestling him to the ground. "_You_ take it back!" He shouted in his little brother's face as he pinned his arms painfully at his sides, using his knees to keep the younger, struggling boy from landing a kick to his lower body.

Huffing out an exasperated breath, the Hawthorne oldest grabbed both grappling boys by the scruff of their shirts, unceremoniously hoisting them off each other and a good three feet off the ground to face him.

They'd been arguing about something or another from the moment he'd gone to their respective classrooms to pick them up after school in order to walk them home, but he'd been far too engrossed in thoughts and worries over their mother to pay any particular head to whatever their little tiff was about. That is, of course, until he heard the abrupt thud behind him and turned to find them wrestling in the snow.

He really wasn't in the mood to deal with whatever these two where quarrelling over right now.

Releasing a slow breath and trying his best to remember the particularly rough few weeks his baby brothers had been going through, he ventured with as much equanimity as he could muster, "You guys know Ma doesn't like you brawling like that. What's this about, now?"

Pointing an accusing finger at the older boy while scrunching his face into an almost painfully adorable pout, little Vick huffed out with that particular cross between anger and hurt only a very young child can muster quivering his voice, "He says he misses daddy more because he knew him longer. But, that ain't fair! It ain't my fault I'm littler and couldn't know 'im as long!"

Oh, wow! Gale _really_ was in no way, shape or form prepared to handle **_this_**!

Setting both boys down, he bent on his haunches so that he was at eye level with his second youngest sibling, who was adamantly glaring at a snow bluff near his feet. Raking a hand briefly through his hair, he sighed in reproach, "Did you really say that to him, Rory?"

Not meeting his older brother's gaze, the seven-year-old brought his short arms up to wrap across his chest obstinately. "Well it's true, ain't it? He can't miss dad as much as I do if he didn't get to be with him as long!" The statement was obviously meant to come out as an angry outburst, but the way the young boy's voice choked off in the end, spoke volumes of the sorrow that had truly engendered it.

The fourteen-year-old brought a hand up to rub down his face, taking a moment to formulate the best response to end this conflict between his younger brothers without causing any more damage to their already frail psyches. In the end, he decided to go with the honest, direct approach. He'd always been of few words, after all.

"Guys, the truth of the matter is: having known Pa longer doesn't mean you miss him any more or loved him any less." When Rory raised his face to him defiantly, clearly ready to retort to the contrary, he quickly added, "What knowing dad longer means in this family is that you have an even greater responsibility to take care of anyone who knew him less time than you did, 'cause you know that's what he would've wanted you to do."

The expression on the seven-year-old's face immediately warped from insubordinate to repentant and he shifted his eyes away from those of his older brother's to lock on his younger sibling with resigned understanding.

Vick, for his part, was tugging at Gale's jacket with large inquisitive gray eyes. Once his brother turned his attention to him, he uttered in a low, unsure voice, "So, I have to take extra special care of Posy, 'cause she didn't get to know daddy, at all."

Allowing a sad smile to tug at one end of his mouth, the oldest boy ruffled both his brother's hair gruffly, righting himself and continuing along the path home.

* * *

What could only be described as a mountain of fabric met them at the entrance once they opened the door.

This being far too much a temptation to the over-stimulated imagination of a seven and five-year-old, Vick and Rory instantly dove into the mass of clothes as if it were some kind of snow bluff- their innocent, juvenile minds completely oblivious to just how bizarre the random appearance of such a thing in the middle of their domicile actually was.

"You boys get out of there this instant and get to your room to get on your homework!"

The Hawthorne eldest turned his questioning scowl from the heap on the floor and his retreating little brothers, who grudgingly mumbled dissention at having to get off it, toward his approaching mother. She had Posy strapped to her back, sleeping soundly. He inwardly mused that kid's ability to sleep through raucous would come in infinitely beneficial in this family.

"So, what do ya think? Bet ya never thought you got your smarts from your old ma, huh?" The Seam woman's smirk was impossibly smug.

The crease between her son's brow only further deepened. "What _is_ all this, Ma?"

The woman swung her hand out over the clothes on the floor, explaining casually, "I went out today, trying to figure out what I could do to earn us a living. I figured I'd walk around the town square to see what popped into my head, when I overheard two Merchant ladies talking. One was complaining to the other about how her girl was having a rough time with the harshness of the winter and having to do her wash due her delicate hands." She paused here to very pronouncedly, roll her eyes before continuing, "So, a light went off in my head and I stepped in and offered to do the girl's wash for her for a few coins a week. The mother asked me to take her wash through the winter, also. Seems Merchant folk don't take kindly to washing while it's cold out. So, I went to all the houses in town and offered to take their wash off their hands for them. It's a darn decent take, once all's said and done. And, you know how these town women are, once they get comfortable with not having to this themselves, they'll likely keep me on even after winter. This may be stable work for me."

The teenager found it difficult to reciprocate his mother's verb. He still felt a failure for relegating her to the position of wash woman to the better-off residents of the district. Apparently, his feelings were broadcast plainly on his countenance, because he found the woman's arms encircling him in a tight hug.

"Cheer up, baby boy. This is good. You and me? We're going to make one heck of a team!"

In spite of himself, the Seam teenager found himself returning his mother's brilliant smile. He couldn't help it.

He hoped with all his being he'd inherited even an iota of this amazing woman's irrepressible spirit.

* * *

**A/N: I have many ideas where this can go from here, but no time to write. Reader input motivates me so...**

**Please Review!**


	3. Unexpected Strangers Compelling Allies

**A/N: I was seriously considering abandoning this project due to a combination of lack of reader interest and lack of time to write. Then, lightning struck and I came upon my characterization for Rory. Be forewarned, I will take Rory Hawthorne in a direction I doubt anyone has ever read before in this fandom. If you like sweet, quiet, taciturn Rory... boy is this fic _not_ for you!XD Just the prospect of what I plan for this kid has piqued my interest for continuing this.**

**Disclaimer:The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins. This Chapter has dialogue taken directly from the books because I tried to stay as true to canon as possible and could not improve upon the master's work.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

What lay beyond the sporadically electrified fence of District Twelve had always served as his retreat. Even before that heinous day nine months prior that took the man that taught him to regard this place as a food source and a means of providing for his family beyond the meager living he could ever hope to make in the mines; the ebony felt at peace only out here amongst the trees.

Here, he was free. He could sit on that bluff of grass and stare up at that clearing of sunlight that broke through the thicket of green all day. This was his haven.

"_CRRRUNCH!_"

The fourteen-year-old sat up noiselessly, propping his weight on his elbows while simultaneously turning his head in the direction of the snapping twig.

'_Great! Some moron just has to wander into **my** strip of serenity!_' he grossed irascibly.

He knew, without a doubt, someone on two feet snapped the twig. Four-legged animals didn't snap one twig at a time like that. He also gathered from the sound that it was someone messing with his snares- someone light on their feet.

That last thought piqued his curiosity. Children did not come out here alone and that sound had definitely been the result of a very small child's gait. The culprit couldn't possibly weigh more than fifty or sixty pounds, he gathered.

Moving with the soundless stealth borne of years venturing this wilderness with his father, he made his way the few dozen yards to where he knew he'd find the perpetrator. He used the massive trunks of the oaks he'd rigged with his twitch-up snares to come within feet of the unsuspecting trespasser.

Once he got close enough, he scrutinized his would-be rival and immediately let the tension he'd unknowingly been carrying in his shoulders wane. Not five feet before him, stood the barely-there wisp that he remembered to be the healer's oldest daughter.

He was rather surprised to see her standing there… alive. The Everdeens were hardier then they appeared, he gathered.

She seemed fascinated by the dead rabbit hanging above her head, so much so that she was paying absolutely no regard to her surroundings.

Stupid…so very stupid.

As the teenager looked on, the enraptured girl actually had the audacity to reach out for his catch. Now, his ma had raised him better than to lift a hand to member of the fairer sex, but she'd never said anything about scaring the fear of God into them for taking what wasn't there's.

"That's dangerous."

He had to consciously stifle a laugh when the tiny thing jumped back a good four feet, snapping eyes the size of a doe's at him. He felt a slight twinge of guilt at the sheer terror he registered in those humongous eyes. So, instead of outright barraging her for what she'd been about to do, he casually moved forward to cut down the rabbit, adding it to the other three already hanging limply from his belt. He'd had a good haul so far that day.

Pretending to be engrossed in the task so as not to scare off the obviously petrified girl, he ventured conversationally, "What's your name?"

Her response came in a quavering, barely discernible murmur. The name sounded odd, but people named their kids weirder things, he ventured. He was named after the strength of a storm himself. Who was _he_ to judge?

"Well, Catnip, stealing's punishable by death, or hadn't you heard?" He managed to keep his inflection that perfect combination of recriminating and patronizing.

To his growing surprise, the diminutive girl seemed to take unprecedented umbrage to either his tone or his statement - he wasn't sure which - because she straightened to her rather unimpressive full height that had to be somewhere around the vicinity of four-foot-seven, lifting her chin defiantly. "Katniss," she vociferated in a far clearer and much angrier voice. "And I wasn't stealing it. I just wanted to look at your snare. Mine never catch anything."

Intrigued by the gumption, the sheer strength of conviction that could emanate from such a small being, the teenager quirked a brow, challenging further, "So where'd you get the squirrel?" He punctuated this with a nod toward the animal she had hanging around her emaciated waist.

Pulling a bow from over her narrow shoulder, the steel-eyed girl declared in a positively smug voice, "I shot it." As if that were the most commonplace thing in the world, which in Twelve, where even manufacturing the weapon she wielded was a crime punishable by hanging- it most certainly _was not_.

His eyes inexorably listing to the weapon he'd only seen a few times in his life, the teenager managed an awed, "Can I see that?"

Steel eyes narrowing distrustfully, the twelve-year-old haltingly held out the bow to him. Edging out a warning in what was supposed to be a menacing tone, "Just remember, stealing's punishable by death."

The Hawthorne first born couldn't help how the edges of his mouth turned up at the ludicrousness of that threat.

He could snap this girl like a twig. No one would ever even find her remains if he dragged her further out where the wild dogs ran rampant. Not that he'd seriously entertain the notion. He wasn't a murderer and she plainly possessed knowledge that could be useful to him in perpetuating his family's well-being. Not to mention the fact that the bow he now held in his hand was far too small for him (Was this meant to be a child's toy?), so she could definitely proof to be of use to him if she could get him a larger one and teach him to use it. But, her hubris at the very notion that she could stop him if he decided to advance on her…

His smile actually grew exponentially as she continued to scowl at him, her sneer growing more pronounced.

Was this insolent little freak reading his thoughts?

* * *

The healer's daughter was so pretty.

Well, at least the six-year-old thought she was pretty when she got angry and Gale seemed to make her angry _all the time_.

She'd walked home with them after school, her and her little sister. Her little sister was pretty, too. But, not like Katniss.

Prim looked like all the mean girls from town that made fun of him because he wore the old clothes his brothers had worn before him to school and because he had holes in his boots. He didn't like girls with yellow hair.

Katniss had pretty black hair like his momma and eyes the same as Gale's. She was fast. He'd seen her run before and she was the fastest girl he'd ever seen. And she could climb trees better than anyone in the whole universe.

"No, Gale. Once I can set up a snare as well as you, then we can talk about you having one of my bows!"

All three children looked up from their homework at the outburst from the other room. It was almost spontaneously answered by an equally heated retort from the familiar, deep male voice. "You think I'm stupid, Everdeen? What guarantee do I have that you'll give me the bow once I've taught you what you want to know?"

The little blonde girl cringed, bringing both hands up to cover her ears.

Noticing how distraught the yelling was making her, the eight-year-old to her left was on his feet and out the door within moments. The other two children followed quickly behind.

"I guess you'll just have to learn how to tru-"

"Hey! You guys better stop hollerin' if you know what's good for you. You're making Prim sad. I'm gonna tell Ma on you two when she gets back and she'll make you argue outside."

As if realizing suddenly that she hadn't made the journey from school to this domicile that was not her own unaccompanied for the first time that afternoon, Katniss' eyes lighted on her baby sister in alarm. She instantly shortened the distance to the pouting child, wrapping her arms almost desperately around her slim torso. She rubbed contrite circles into her back briefly, stating softly into her ear, "I'm so sorry for yelling, Prim. Go get your stuff. We're going home, okay?" Then, she pulled away and placed a hand softly on her cheek, gracing her with a hopeful look.

The little blonde girl nodded haltingly, turning to the other room to get her books.

"We're not done talking about this, you know…"

Turning to burn a glare into the infuriating older boy behind her, she all but hissed out, "Oh, I'm done. I'm taking Prim home. Then, I'm going to see what I can catch before it gets too dark out. You can stay and talk to yourself, for all I care."

Then, ignoring the sharp intake of breath and shocked stares from the two younger boys in the room, she took a firm but gentle hold of her baby sister's hand and swiftly led her through the front door without sparing the teenager a second glance.

"Ooh! She really let you have it, Gale! I've never, ever heard nobody but momma talk to you like that!" Vick flailed a hand as if this was the juiciest piece of gossip he'd ever been privy to before bursting into giggles. An act his second oldest brother quickly joined in, the hand held to his mouth doing a very poor job of containing it.

Gale ran a hand through his hair roughly, not bothering to so much as acknowledge his younger siblings' mockery in his indignant state. He continued glaring ice at the now-closed door as he huffed out gruffly, "Don't you two have homework to get to?"

This instantly got the snickering to stop. It even got the youngest of the boys' shoulders slumping as he edged back in the direction of the room all three shared. He stopped and snapped his little brunette head back at the next words he heard come out of the boy he believed was following him, however.

"Don't _you_ have homework to do, too, Gale?"

For the span of a few breaths, the Hawthorne youngest was certain his lungs were no longer capable of that particular function as he stared unblinking between his older brothers.

'_Rory's gone totally nuts!_' he thought frantically.

If there were two unspoken rules in that house, they were these: No one questioned Momma… No one questioned Gale. It was fairly common knowledge.

The six-year-old could only look on in horror, transfixed by mute morbid, infantile curiosity.

Not trusting himself to keep from outright striking out if he came any closer to the belligerently glaring eight-year-old (when he was six and his parents had first handed the wailing, squirming mass that was this child over to him as introduction into elder brotherhood, he'd promised them both never to strike him in anger), the Seam teenager crouched down so that the kid could have a clear view of the rage that flared through the flint in his eyes, causing them to narrow into an obviously threatening sneer.

He suppressed the superior grin that threatened the edges of his mouth when even that small gesture caused the younger boy to flinch, the first tentative tendrils of hesitation flitting through his coal-colored eyes. '_Didn't really go into this with a battle plan, did you, kid?_' the teen mused inwardly.

He allowed his tenor to drop to a skin-crawlingly low decibel. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for your bull right now, Rory? Go to your room and finish your schoolwork. If I see you come out within the next hour? You can be sure Ma will be the least of your worries."

The emotional inner turmoil within the younger boy broadcast momentarily across his countenance – reticence, anger, humiliation, sadness, longing – before it settled on grudging acceptance and he wrenched his eyes to the floor. He hastily moved past his younger brother – very nearly bowling him over in the process - toward their room, the cloud of ill will still hanging thick over his head.

Vick watched his retreating back disappear into the room, still shocked and not fully understanding what had just happened. Then, he turned large questioning, downtrodden eyes to his eldest brother.

Unable to hold on to his rage when faced with the sheer innocence and pain etched in those nearly translucent pools, Gale let out a defeated breath, holding out his arms. "Come here, Vick."

It took all of four steps for the six-year-old to find himself buried in the comfort of his older brother's chest, encased in his arms. "Why is Rory acting like this, Gale?" he managed to gasp out through the freely falling tears.

The Seam teenager continued to look at the room his second youngest brother had disappeared into moments prior. He'd seen the things that had registered through the younger boy's eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen them since their father's passing. He was distracted from the grief by the task of keeping them all fed, as was his mother, most of the time. The boy he held in his arms was young enough to only understand and feel the loss of their father bilaterally.

Rory was in pain… and he was not handling it particularly well.

Gale had absolutely no idea how to help him.

Pulling away from his youngest brother enough to grace him with what he hoped was a convincing enough smile, the teenager ventured softly, "Rory's just going through a tough time right now, Vick. He'll get over it soon… you'll see…"

From the way the younger boy instantly wrapped himself into his torso after the assertion, the teenager gathered he wasn't particularly convincing.

He couldn't really blame him, he thought as he looked back at the room holding Rory.

He'd never been a particularly good liar…

* * *

**A/N:**

**The next chapter is all about Rory, how Gale and the rest of the Hawthorne clan deal with his particular idiosyncrasy. I have a fascination with this kid now. If anybody is interested in reading this...**

**Please Review!**


	4. The Other Hawthorne Boy

**A/N: ****I've decided these are likely not going to be chronological. It's not very practical.**

**This is long. I nee****ded to** get a lot into this one to make me happy. XD Sorry…

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Hazelle shifted the squirming two-year-old in her arms surreptitiously out of the easy reach of the many sharp writing implements, teaching pamphlets and paperweights littering the desk she sat before. A soft whimper of protest came from the toddler at being foiled in her attempt at inserting one of the fascinating jagged, shinny things in her itchy little mouth, but settled for sucking eagerly on her tiny fist when her mother scowled down at her, clucking her tongue.

"She's quite adorable, isn't she?"

The Seam woman's eyes shifted back to the balding fifty-something-year-old behind the desk, fighting back the urge to roll them.

Did he think that was a compliment? Did he think her soft in the head to not notice the patronizing tone he'd used?

Obviously, this man was fond of children, there was no other reason to take his particular position in this district other than that. Teaching wasn't especially well remunerated in Twelve. And doubtlessly, her Posy was a beautiful child. But the way the wrinkles around the corners of this man's eyes and mouth deepened whenever he looked at her, spoke volumes of just how he felt about her dark coloring.

All that taken into account, however, the Hawthorne matriarch had dealt with far worse than veiled disesteem for her kind from his in her lifetime and she could certainly outright ignore the fact that he'd spoken altogether until he had something of actual relevance to impart to their current repartee.

Realizing the woman before him was not going to humor his comment with a reply, the educator's pale cornflower eyes listed back to the three files he had open on his table as he drummed his fingers rhythmically against the table.

Finally, after a few more moments, he lifted them from the literature and, removing his wide-rimmed glasses to rub the bridged of his nose, sighed wearily, "I know you have a long day ahead of you, Mrs. Hawthorne. I'll try to keep this as to-the-point as possible."

He now brought down his hand on the file to his furthest right, staring at her intently. He spoke with a stern, clinical intonation. "Aside from a penchant for speaking pretty much whatever is coursing through his mind at any given moment, coupled with a flagrant disregard for any authority figure that isn't, well… _you_, Gale is academically one of the most gifted students we have." He then sat back, keeping the same stern expression while bringing both arms to cross over his chest to continue, flatly, "Which is quite extraordinary, considering the fact that if you walked out this moment and asked any random student you passed in that hallway if they had ever seen your son doing a single piece of assigned school work, they honestly could not tell you they ever had. Far as we figure, he must do it while he's out in that wilderness- no one really knows. All his teachers know is that he makes nearly perfect scores in mathematics, high scores in sciences and very decent scores in reading comprehension."

The man shrugged, letting out a breath as his hand dropped down to the open file to his furthest left. "Then we have Vick…"

Hazelle shifted uncomfortably in her chair, cradling her baby closer to her chest, an uneasy feeling rising in the pit of her stomach at the obvious fact that one of her sons had already been passed over in this sequence. This never augured anything good.

The school principal continued, oblivious to the discomfort of the woman before him. "Vick is showing extreme promise in some of the same areas as his oldest brother. He seems to excel in sciences, however. He has a very analytical mind. He also scores higher in reading comprehension. Also, he tends to be well-behaved, he doesn't have his brother's rather unfortunate proclivity toward 'outspokenness'", he paused here to send her a pointed look, "and he seems generally well-adjusted to his peers."

The older fair-haired man now sat forward, bringing both hands up to lace his fingers atop the file in the center of his desk. His brows knit slightly as he focused a look that seemed almost condemning on the Seam woman.

"Then we come to the real reason I have called you here today, Mrs. Hawthorne…"

'_Here we go_', ran through Hazelle's mind ruefully. She had a pretty good idea what was coming.

"Rory is brilliant, Mrs. Hawthorne. Just because he doesn't earn the same scores in mathematics and sciences as his brothers, doesn't mean he is any less intelligent. His scores in reading comprehension are in the top percentile for the entire school. He plays the violin beautifully in music classes… and that is with minimal instruction, mind you. He is obviously musically inclined, naturally. He does not require any more "motivation" than his brothers; I can vouch for that myself." The man actually made the punctuation gesture with the index and middle fingers of both hands to accentuate motivation.

Okay. Whatever Hazelle had been expecting- it decidedly had not been _that_. Accordingly, she found herself staring absently and slightly slack-jawed at the man for a tick before managing a fairly ineloquent "What?"

And, at this impasse, she learned that whichever Merchant family this man came from, they had not had the good taste to teach him how rude it was to roll his eyes at a guest, since he chose this moment to indulge in a rather extravagant exposition of the gesture. He started addressing her in a tone she wouldn't belittle the toddler in her arms with. "Please, Mrs. Hawthorne. I've seen this a million times before with the Seam kids from the community home. The detached demeanor, the proclivity toward violent outbursts, the outwardly anti-social behavior toward most children, not his own kin. It's understandable with the children in the home. They have no parents and the caretakers must use a stern hand to keep order, after all. They're fortunate not to be left out in the streets to starve. However, Rory does still have one parent and he's not a particularly ill-behaved child. Yes, he tends to turn to violence as a first resort to resolve conflicts, but that is likely due to his short temper. And boys will be boys, after all, am I right?"

It took her a second to get over that feeling of having the wind knocked out of her by an invisible sucker-punch to the gut, then another to really, ruminate the enormity of the accusation this insensitive bigot had just launched against her.

Then, adjusting her baby on one lap with an arm and bringing a trembling hand to hover over her mouth in agitation, she managed in a barely restrained hiss, "I _do not_ now or have I ever, beat any of my boys." Even she was amazed at her own constraint. How had she not walked out of this idiot's office already?

The balding man sat back aloofly, as if he'd just stated the condition of the weather, arms crossing once more across his chest. "I would not presume to tell you how to raise your children, Mrs. Hawthorne. But, when they start causing disruptions-"

"Is this the crap you feed your Merchant friends when their kids show up battered and bloodied to class, Mr. Glascoe?" She couldn't help herself anymore. This man's insufferable way of speaking to her, the way he looked at Posy, the fact that District Twelve was small enough that everyone knew exactly who beat their kids. Or, more to the point, the fact that beyond those poor, unfortunate souls who fell into the cruel, heartless hands of the caregivers in the community home, there was only really one person in the district cold-blooded enough to wail on her own offspring.

And she was decidedly _not_ Seam.

To her satisfaction, the corners of the man's mouth dipped marginally into a nearly imperceptible frown before he quickly schooled them back to his previous blank expression. He managed to retain that infuriating bored tone. "As I was saying, Mrs. Hawthorne, I wouldn't presume to tell _anyone_ how to raise their children. It is simply not my place."

Hazelle had to use every ounce of equanimity in her body to keep from pouncing on the man when he smirked superiorly at her after that statement. He then continued casually, "You might be surprised to know that Merchant children, curiously don't show these reclusive behaviors your son is exhibiting due to whatever duress he is under. This seems to be a uniquely Seam quirk." God! She hated the way his eyebrow rose as he said that last part!

"I must, however, advise you that there have been seven separate incidents this past year involving your son shoving, kicking or engaging in verbal confrontations with other classmates, all of which would have escalated had the teacher not intervened. If this happens again, Rory will be sent home. We can not have students disrupting our classes, Mrs. Hawthorne- not even students as bright as Rory."

Bringing a hand up to brush a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, the steel-eyed woman replied heatedly, "I'll make sure Rory tones it down. Don't you worry none about that. What did the other child do or say to my boy to get him so riled up?"

Clearly not expecting that particular follow up question, the man looked down at the file, his brow furrowing as he answered, "The reports all seem to indicate the other child involved reported your son simply lost control.

At hearing this, Hazelle started to rise to her feet, her light gray eyes narrowing dangerously at the man sitting at the desk before her. "What do you mean, 'the other child reported'? You telling me you're basing this off the accusations of another youngin'? Where was the teacher when all this was happening?"

The man visibly swallowed under the Seam woman's intense scrutiny, gazing down to skim the report once more before reporting in a hesitant, almost timid intonation, "All the incidents occurred immediately before or after class. The teachers were not present and responded to the commotion."

Hazelle let out a bemused, disbelieving scoff. "So, let me get this straight. You're accusing my nine-year-old of starting trouble you ain't know for sure he started based on the word of – let me guess – a Merchant child?"

When the man looked down once more at the file and didn't bother looking up again, she had all the answer she needed. Wrapping both arms securely around her daughter, she made her way to the door briskly, stopping only to send a recriminating glare over her shoulder at the man at the desk.

"As I said before, I'll be sure Rory knows exactly how I feel about getting dragged down here because of his fooling around and quarreling in school, but I do suggest you don't ever let my oldest get wind of what you insinuated I did to his baby brother, Mr. Glascoe."

Right as she exited, she threw back into the room, "My Jasper taught that boy all kinds of ways to skin a critter and he's got a heck of a mean streak, that one."

She was gone before she could register the horrified intake of breath from the room she'd just vacated.

* * *

Ugh! They were all giggling and staring at him again.

Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He never bothered any of _them_. He never even spoke to any of them. Why were they always picking on him?

The nine-year-old averted his crystalline eyes to the ground, moving behind his far taller older brother in the hopes of obscuring himself from the visible horizon of the conniving group of Merchant girls. Maybe, for once they would overlook him and he could make it into the school unscathed.

The odds were not in his favor today, however.

"Oh, my God, Gillian. What smells? Is that Seam trash? Oh, no. It's only Vick." A very annoying, high-pitched bout of infantile giggling immediately followed this.

Not even bothering wasting the effort rolling his light charcoal eyes would expend on these useless wastes of human skin and organs, the eleven-year-old did not hesitate in retorting, "Emmy, our mom does your laundry, genius. She uses the same soap on your clothes as she does on ours. You smell like whatever Vick smells like, moron."

"What did you just call my little sister, Hawthorne?"

Both Seam boys turned away from the group of blonde ten-year-olds to face the quickly approaching general storeowner's second born. He was conspicuously flanked by two other boys, both in the same year as their companion, all three in the junior squad of the wrestling team.

'_Perfect._'

This was not the first time this particular scenario had played out with this ensemble of players. The Hawthorne second oldest had a good idea how it would end. "Get inside the school, Vick."

Knowing exactly how this was going down, the younger boy clung desperately to his brother's arm, pulling him in the direction of the school. There was a desperate imploration to his near shriek. "Please, Rory, Let it go! I don't care if Emmy or Gillian or any of them make fun of me. You can't get into another fight. Remember what mom told you. You get sent home again and you don't get to go out with Gale. Please, let's just go!"

Wrenching his arm away from his younger brother's grasp, the older Hawthorne hissed out, heatedly, "Get inside now, Vick. If I get sent home, Gale will walk you home after school… now git!"

"It's okay, Chance." The now-panicking voice of the instigating Merchant boy's sister rang in from behind. "We were just messing around. Nobody meant anything by it."

Rory didn't even avert his eyes from glaring at the girl's older brother to acknowledge the statement, however. He was well aware this had little to do with the girl and much more to do with him. It just so happened she was a convenient excuse on this particular day.

"Just go in, Emmy. Let me handle this, okay? Go on, now. You don't wanna be late and get in trouble, do you?" The dirty blonde shot his little sister an appeasing smile and the little girl hesitantly made her way to the building, her friends following close behind.

The youngest Hawthorne male shot them a furtive glance before turning one last beseeching look at his older brother. His only response was a sad smile and whispered, "Go, Vick." Then, he moved slowly away, not daring to look back, knowing his brother wouldn't want him to see.

Once he watched his baby brother's back disappear into the doorway, the eleven-year-old turned back to the general storeowner's son as the two other boys moved around to stand behind him in what was becoming an all-too-familiar dance. He couldn't keep the mocking tone out of his newly deepening voice. "You know, guys, it isn't cowardly at all ganging up on me three on one or anything..."

A positively depraved smirk tugged at the corner of the older boy's mouth as he stepped closer, curiously coming nose to nose with his considerably younger opponent. "I'll seriously take that under advisement."

Then, Rory found himself on the ground, the pain from the knee to his ribs serving as a nice distraction from the barrage of blows the three blondes rained on his torso.

* * *

On principle alone, he hated these things on good days.

On a day like today, when he was nursing three bruised ribs and about a dozen other less serious injuries, the school's yearly compulsory assembly of the entire student body for what they called "orientation" felt like torture.

Whom were they orienting, anyway? The five-year-olds? He was fairly sure they were the only ones gathered out in that field behind the school – it was the only space big enough to hold this many children at one time – who hadn't heard this dribble about school etiquette and procedure a thousand times.

He allowed his eyes to roam soberly over the amassed crowd of students, simultaneously grateful and impressed whatever that was Mrs. Everdeen had given Katniss for him, made the swelling in the left one last less than a day. The children were gathered into a humongous circle, segregated by their school year and splayed on the soft grass. The youngest were the closest to the center, where a rudimentary 'stage' – made up of mats from the gym, folding chairs and a podium – had been established for the speakers. This made it pretty obvious the younger kids really were the intended targets of the bulk of the information being disseminated, as there were no microphones and whoever was on that stage would be hard-pressed to get whatever they were saying out to the eighteen-year-olds in the outer rims of the circle.

Not that any of _them_ were paying a lick of attention, anyway.

Of course, that all changed when actual students started making their way onto the stage, causing that same exited murmur to go through the crowd it did every year. This was the part where the clubs and sports teams and what-nots spoke their peace. It was a fan favorite in these things. The eleven-year-old just propped both arms on his bent knees and redoubled his attempts to block the sound out. Younger, unnecessarily excitable voices definitely reached the farther edges of this stupid sphere.

He tried to busy himself with searching out his brothers and Katniss. The field they all occupied had a natural slope, which was likely the inspiration for grouping the students in a circle. It was pretty much a giant bowl in shape and the speakers were set up in the center - it's lowest point - looking up and out at the students. This was decidedly helpful to the eleven-year-old and he found Vick quickly enough. The nine-year-old was sitting in a group of five other Seam boys a couple of sections down to his left, making some ridiculous face in mockery of the student council president who spoke presently from the podium and laughing. Rory's mouth inadvertently twitched into a grin. His baby brother was such a goofball.

Turning his head to scan the opposite side of the field in search of Katniss, his eyes inadvertently locked with the very concerned blue pools of the only person he called a friend outside his family. Of course, right now he'd call her a warden, considering she'd glued herself to his side like a leech ever since she'd learned he'd been in another scuffle three days ago, clandestinely self-appointing herself his personal nurse. Outwardly, he cringed upon making eye contact with her. Inwardly, he was grateful to have her close when he felt this awful.

He'd do anything in his power to maim anyone who divulged what he felt inwardly, however.

"How are you feeling, Rory?"

Inching up an eyebrow before drifting his eyes away to continue his exploration of the crowds in search of both their older siblings, he responded, curtly, "About as well as I felt ten minutes ago. You know, the last time you asked..."

The blonde wrapped both arms across her chest, huffing out angrily is response, "The sarcasm is uncalled for, you know. A simple 'I don't feel any better, Prim. Thank you for asking' would have been just fine. Is that too much to ask?"

His smile growing exponentially as he continued to scan the crowds of children until he was almost staring across from where they sat, the eleven year old answered, mockingly, "I feel every bit as crappy as I did ten minutes ago, Prim. Only now, my left buttcheek's gone numb from sitting here so long. Thanks for asking."

A swift elbow to his shoulder coupled with a lyrical giggle was his response. He didn't turn to acknowledge her, though. It would only make her feel guilty if she saw the pain register on his face since she'd managed to land the hit on one of his bruises.

She was one in a very short list of people he cared to keep looking happy.

His teachers had been telling him for years he needed to be more sociable, make more friends. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he'd ever want to do that, though. Seven of his neighbors, children who lived within three blocks of him, children he'd gone to kindergarten with, had died within the previous four years. Some died from disease, others died because they didn't have someone like Gale and his ma to make sure they ate _something_ every day. Why would he want to know more of these slowly dying kids surrounding him? Was he _supposed_ to be an emotional masochist?

If unendingly dealing with losing people you cared about was the definition of being sociable, he was more than happy to bare the brand of antisocial outcast. As far as he was concerned, he was all the slightly less damaged for it. And, let's be honest, he was still pretty freaking damaged.

That's why he liked hanging out with Prim. She was never trying to "fix" him. She listened to his rants without trying to give him useless advice he could never realistically exercise. She understood he was flawed in a certain way and she accommodated it. Not to mention, she had a strange side to her sense of humor, he wasn't sure anyone else knew about.

He'd only seen glimpses of it himself. Like a couple of days prior, when he'd first come back to school in awful shape, she'd pulled him into the girl's bathroom afterschool. She'd been almost gasping for air with delirium as she'd showed him the rather impressive collection of writing in the stalls and walls. His oldest brother was recurrently referred to, as was a boy he quickly recognized as the baker's oldest son. He blushed at some of the things some of the girls wrote, some terms he wasn't even familiar with. He'd never known girls used their bathroom as some sort of confidential about their male peers.

Prim's laughter had intensified when she'd led him to a spot that had what appeared to be newer writing, judging by the freshness of the ink. When he'd looked closer, he'd seen his name referenced everywhere, along with remarks on everything from his height to his build to his derriere. The flush that had rushed up his neck as he read that was so intense, he'd felt the heat through his clothes. He'd looked up at the snickering girl beside him mortified.

"Oh, it gets worse," The pretty blonde had replied, wiping at her eyes while pointing at a different spot with more fresh ink. "I caught Emmy Starnorth writing _that_ the day before yesterday."

Afraid to look, but too curious not to, the eleven-year-old had read what the general storeowner's daughter had written. The one eye that wasn't swollen shut, had widened to the size of a dinner plate. There it was. In the bubble-lettered handwriting only a little girl possessed:

'_Vick Hawthorne has the most amazing eyes! He is so gorgeous! He's going to be the best looking of them all!_'

The Hawthorne second born suppressed a shudder at that memory as his eye finally lighted on the huntress. His baby brother was bloody nine! And these sick little Merchant girls were already ogling him? Worse yet, he was certain at least three of the altercations with the younger members of the wrestling squad he'd had in the last year, involved some stupid little girl picking on his baby brother. That meant that now he was getting his butt handed to him because some immature twit didn't know a better way to show her feelings besides bullying.

That was just great!

Rory tried to shake the darkening thoughts from his mind by focusing back on his previous task. He looked back at where Katniss sat. She was sitting next to the mayor's daughter, almost across from where they were. She looked as bored as he felt. At least, she had company. The only positive to being stuck out here, besides getting out of schoolwork an hour early, was that they got to sit wherever they wanted as long as it was within the section assigned to their year.

Suddenly, he was wrenched out of his stupor when a very different baritone rang out over the crowds. His eyes traveled to the speaker of their own accord, his voice had something of an entrancing quality to it. It was quite fascinating, really.

The eighteen-year-old's nearly deep purple eyes regarded the amassed student body with a comfort that was almost unnerving, as if he were speaking to a group of intimate friends. No one should feel that at ease speaking to hundreds. "Okay. So, we all know we lose our graduating class of teammates this year, myself included."

To Rory's confoundment, a wave of 'Aw's' and condolences swept through the outer edges of the circle, which was followed by some cheering until the teachers had to restore order to the rowdy upperclassmen.

Wiping at his eye with one hand and letting out an obviously fake sniffle, the blonde continued in what could almost pass for sincere despondency, "Oh, come on, you guys. You're making me cry." This, of course, was answered by a second round of laughter from the upper ring.

"Okay, shush everyone. I have to finish this or principal Glascoe's gonna kick me off the stage. Here are the six students the wrestling team has scouted into this year's roster…" He then picked up a card off the podium and began reading off last names. He had to pause in between as every name met with cheers from some particular clique of blondes in either the section above Rory's or the outer ring. Often both, as one of the upperclassmen's younger brother joined the score of teammates. The only name that caused pause in the student body was the very last.

"Hawthorne!" Rang clear through the entire crowd in that authoritative, mesmerizing inflection.

"No, thank you, Flax."

What appeared to be the cumulative stares of every single person on that field, diverged to the somber seventeen-year-old sitting solitarily with one leg splayed out and the other bent upward, his knee supporting his lax arm, who'd just uttered the reply with unwavering conviction.

Raising an intrigued, bemused pale eyebrow, the towhead on stage sent him a flirtatious grin. "Oh, I'm beyond tired of barking up your particular tree, Gale. You've made it more than clear your extracurricular activities card is more than full. Plus, you've simply broken my heart one too many times. Ask any of the girls around you. I don't take rejection particularly well." This brought on a renewed round of hooting and wolf-calling, which the teachers did their best to squelch.

Still snickering as he turned back to gaze in the opposite direction into the swarm of students, the bulky teenager continued nonchalantly, "Still, you do have a point. I wasn't very clear. The call is for _Rory_ Hawthorne." Then his eyes landed on the rather confused boy and he elaborated, "You're supposed to stand when I call your name, kid."

Too surprised to register what exactly was happening, the Hawthorne second born stared dumbly into the oceanic eyes that felt as if they were burrowing directly into him, somehow paralyzed by the older boy's scrutiny. It wasn't until he felt the jab to his arm and heard the softly whispered "Get up, Rory" from the girl on his right that his neurons aligned and got out message to his limbs. He cautiously got to his feet, still wary this was some kind of intricate ruse to humiliate him on some astronomically epic scale.

And maybe it was, considering the comment that rang through the air the instant he was on his feet.

"You can't do this, Flax!"

The teenager on the podium's eyes flashed dangerously to a section above and to the right of where Rory stood. "I'm sorry, Chance. Were you under the misconception that this team is a democracy? Because I can assure you right now that, _it is not_. The only requirements to qualify for the roster are academic and athletic. Or, maybe your issue is the fact that this choice was made by a retiring captain, without the input of his successor? That would be a deplorable breech in procedure wouldn't it be?" The blonde now violently swung his head back toward the section behind and to the far right of the podium, scanning the student body for someone. Once he found whoever it was he was looking for, he called out in a voice dripping with anger and sarcasm, "So, what's your opinion on my choices for this year's roster?"

The sixteen-year-old had to lick his lips to keep from outright laughing at the inanity of this entire exercise before vociferating his response. "Looks like a very decent crop of boys to me, big brother."

"Oh, like he'll ever disagree with anything you say, Flax."

"You really feel like eating grass, Joe?"

Rory watched in dumbfounded fascination as the boy in his brother's section cowed at the poorly veiled threat from the younger teen. He'd never seen Merchant kids act this way. He still didn't understand why the baker's oldest sons were singling him out.

He watched as the principal stood from his chair, narrowing his eyes in the Mellark middle child's direction. "Miss Stone, there is more than enough lawn in this field to accommodate everyone. Please, vacate Mr. Mellark's lap and find your own plot to occupy." Before turning back to his seat, he added over his shoulder as an afterthought, "And do make sure that plot is in the general vicinity of your pertinent school year, Miss Stone."

As Rory looked on, amidst a chorus of laughter from the students, a very pretty blonde girl stood from the section in the far right behind the stage with a huff, straightened her lovely lavender dress and proceeded to stomp the few yards to the section where Katniss and the mayor's daughter were sitting. She made her way to a covey of six Merchant kids and plopped down next to another fair-haired teenager, grabbing his arm protectively in both of hers while shooting a belligerent look at the principal. The fifteen-year-old who'd just been all but accosted by her did nothing but smile congenially at the man who shook his head in disapproval.

"Well, there's certainly never any shortage of Mellarks," the eleven-year-old heard his friend snort out in amusement below him.

Taking a closer look at the boy in Katniss' section, the Hawthorne second born realized he did favor the speaker on the stage and the boy in the Sixteens quite a bit. That was something of a disarming thought. What'd they do? Share girls?

'_Eewww!_'

As soon as the principal was back in his chair, the sports' coach was turning in the same direction the older man had spoken before. "Rye! For the love of mercy, you're co-captain of the team, son. What're you doing seating through this out there? Get on this stage!"

The muscled teen let his head loll back in clear indication he really didn't want to move. However, after a moment's hesitation, got to his feet with a groan and made his way to the stage.

He diverted to pass his baby brother as he went, ruffling the younger teenager's hair and remarking a very inappropriate, "Keep her warm for me, little brother", which started a new round of snickering from the students.

Once he reached the podium, his older brother greeted him with a scowl and a "Way to make a jackass of yourself" that may or may not have been meant for everyone else's ears- but everyone present heard.

"Bite me." Rye's response was definitely meant for the general audience.

Rolling his eyes in aggravation away from his younger brother to land on the Seam boy still standing in the Elevens section, Flax repeated his invitation. "So, what do you say, Rory. The spot on the team is yours if you want it."

Realizing this wasn't some kind of a joke, that this was actually happening, that he was being offered a chance to learn to fight back against the guys who randomly attacked him out of the blue… the eleven-year-old found himself at a loss as to how to respond.

"I-I'm not old enough…" He instantly berated himself for sounding so unsure, so feeble. But, that was technically true. The starting age for the team was twelve.

Flipping a glance back at his baby brother behind the stage, who'd been allowed into the team at only ten, the co-captain spoke up easily, "Allowances are made all the time for legacies. The age thing can be overlooked as long as the athlete is fit enough to take the rigors of the sport." He now narrowed his eyes into a piercing look. "No one here can argue you've been taking it for long enough to prove you can handle the _rigors_."

No longer able to hold those gazes that saw way too far into a place he was not comfortable with _anyone_ exploring, the Seam boy instead shifted his deep gray eyes pleadingly to his older brother across the stage. He was surprised to find Gale was on his feet and glaring right back, the answer to his unvoiced plea written clearly in the silver of his eyes.

Rory's shoulders slumped as his eyes found the ground. He struggled desperately to contain the dread and disappointment welling up inside from displaying too prominently on his face.

"Only parental consent is necessary to join the squad, Rory."

The eleven-year-old looked up at the baker's oldest son, a lost, defeated expression twisting his features. How could this boy he'd never met or even spoken to read him so well? Did it even really matter? "He might as well be…" It was barely above a moaned whisper.

"Flax!"

The Mellark elder boys turned to see the Seam hunter making his way through the throngs towards the stage in an unconcealed irate haste. The principal made to get up and reprimand him, but a hand on his shoulder and a pointed look from the coach had the older man turning back in his seat.

Gale wasted no time hissing out venomously upon reaching the stage, "What are you doing?"

Undaunted by the acerbic tone the taller boy used, the older teen answered matter-of-factly, "The guys on the team won't stop targeting him, Gale. He looks nothing close to his actual age, so they don't feel raw about picking on someone younger. He doesn't have the good sense to back down from impossible fights. He's a very convenient target to stupid, over-zealous boys who think they have something to prove and aren't allowed by the rules on the team to fight amongst themselves. The only protection we can offer is to teach him how to defend himself. Plus, as long as he's on the team, he'll be off-limits. These beatings are only going to get worse. He's going to get hurt bad."

The Seam teenager ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. He understood their logic. He appreciated what they were trying to accomplish. Really, he did. He still felt deep down this was wrong for Rory. Never mind, his baby brother was _his_ responsibility and his alone. "I understand you guys need this to deal, but I don't want him fighting. Not in the schoolyard, not on the mat. He has to deal with this another way."

The Mellark middle child now spoke up. "Have you gotten a good look at him lately, Gale? Keeping _that_ pent up is not good for anybody. It's going to show up one way or another."

"So what? I'm supposed to let you teach him to unleash it until he all but rips people's arms off unwittingly in blind rage or turns into little more than a barely sane brute?"

His brother's softly placed hand on his shoulder brought Rye back from that dark place that had instantly caused him to stiffen into an offensive posture at the steel-eyed teen's words. His eyes flicked shortly to lock with those of his baby brother's in the crowd. Even when the fifteen-year-old had no idea what they were discussing, he could see concern in those baby blue depths… his empathic, ever-so-good little brother. This brought him back to himself and he hissed out defensively at the older teenager, "The sport is the sport, Hawthorne. We all choose to exploit it however we see fit. The best of us choose not to exploit it at all. There's a blaring example of that out in this crowd."

Lowering his head in abdication at the younger blonde, the ebony replied with remorse, "I don't doubt that's true, but I don't want this for Rory. I'll take him out with Katniss and teach him to shoot. I'll figure something else out for him. I want more than violence to be his answer for this."

Flax nodded his assent and Gale turned back to make his way to his previous position on the field. Before he'd taken four steps, however, he heard the Mellark middle child address the crowd again.

"Well, due to familial responsibilities, Rory Hawthorne can not participate as an active member of the team. Therefore, we have determined he will be considered an honorary member instead and the sixth slot will not be filled this year." The sixteen-year-old now lowered his intonation to something unmistakably baneful. "This will mean he is entitled to the same considerations as anyone else on the team. Whomever violates the code of conduct will be expelled summarily from all team activities. I hope this is clear to everyone." Then, the baker's two sons left the stage, heading for in the separate general directions their friends were sitting in the assembly.

Rory barely registered the last words spoken by the Mellarks as he ran around the back of the school, away from the field, away from the assembly, away from his brother.

He couldn't let him have even this.

No, instead he had to step in and find the most humiliating compromise… leave poor, pathetic Rory alone or lose your precious position on your worthless team.

How long did they think that'd work, anyway? How long did his brother expect to keep those bastards from acting against their nature? How long did his brother think _he'd_ act against his own nature?

Everyone respected Gale, he'd even wager they feared him. But, they weren't afraid of _him_ and his older brother couldn't protect him, he couldn't protect Vick.

Gale had to be the politician, the avid diplomat. He could afford to be feared and respected, but ultimately needed to be accepted by the Merchants. They were the people he traded with. He couldn't afford to alienate them- they'd all starve.

So, Rory had to be the protector. He had to take the beatings. He had to stand up to them. He had to be disliked. Who else was there?

The eleven-year-old was grateful he was a good hundred yards from the school when the tears started flowing in earnest. Last thing he needed now was for the kids in school to see him cry, another weakness to exploit.

God, he missed his dad.

* * *

**A/N: Wow! Sorry this is so long! I'd tell you this will be the longest one of these but I honestly have absolutely no idea. These things tend to take on a life of their own at a certain point and I think this is where it happened. I mean, I knew it would be long, but I had no idea. I'm actually not done with this kid. I'm done for now, but I still have ideas, mostly focusing on him with Vick and Gale or him with Prim (I REALLY like my ideas for him with PrimXD). If you like where I'm heading with my characterizations for this family...**

**Please Review!**


	5. The Alternative is Unacceptable

**A/N: I apologize that it's taken me so long to update. I have many ideas for this, no time to write. I will try to do what I can when I can. The good news is that these are not really chronological. They're more like drabbles, so there's no continuity to follow if I take forever to add to it.**

**Disclaimer:The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins. **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

"Hey, Catnip, what's your favorite subject in school?"

The slight thirteen-year-old turned to raise a very flummoxed eyebrow in her companion's general direction, implicitly trying not to bristle at the deliberate mispronunciation of her name. She'd killed off that stupid lynx weeks ago. He was just doing it to get a rise out of her at this point. There was no way she was indulging him.

They'd been sitting in the current bluff for well over an hour – a roughly six foot by six foot ancient cropping of boulders near one of the more heavily transited streams. The entrance to which, the older boy had brilliantly and expertly, camouflaged with a mesh net woven with the same moss and forest debris that covered the rocks.

'_**This** was the first thing he could come up with after an hour of silence_', the steel-eyed girl thought unimpressed. She lowered her bow to fully turn her disapproving sneer on the older boy for breaking her concentration when she was about to shoot a particularly trusting and oblivious wild turkey wandering into her line of sight to its own detriment twelve yards away.

She made a quick mental note of the open schoolbook nestled between his interwoven legs, as he drew back his own bowstring as well as a breath and released both simultaneously before cringing. "Crap! I got it through the breast. I was aiming for its neck. How do you get the stupid arrow to go through a stupid turkey's neck?"

She couldn't help the way her eyes rolled the instant his moved away from the shallow peephole to lock with hers in honest bewilderment nor the disdain that tinged her inflection as she turned back, bringing her bow up to track her next target. "Actually concentrating on aiming instead of reading or whatever the heck it is you're doing might definitely help. That was my mark, you know. And to answer your out-of-nowhere question, I don't have a favorite subject in school. It's just an eight-hour interruption in my weekday that keeps me from being out here getting the _really_ important things done. You might want to get your butt out there and get that carcass before a dog or wolf beats you to it…"

The fifteen-year-old found one corner of his mouth twitching up at his somewhat hesitant hunting partner's ire. He found her infantile mood swings ridiculous. It wasn't as if game was tagged to anyone out here. Never mind, it was entirely ridiculous to be angry with him over his getting to that dimwitted bird first. Why was he still keeping company with this annoying little brat again?

Oh, yeah. She was freaking lethal with that bow and he'd only just accomplished the daunting achievement of hitting a moving target a few weeks prior. He still needed her to teach him to refine his marksmanship. His kills were sloppy, never garnering as much in trade as hers. She was still useful. However, the instant she outlived her usefulness, he was losing her in the deepest stretch of the woods he could to find her own way home. He hoped the experience alone caused her never to so much as look at him again in their lifetimes.

At this point, he was just trying to look at this 'partnership' as positively as possible just to keep from throttling her. The healer's daughter was impossible. She quibbled with him over everything – how they split their catch from the snares _he'd_ helped her setup, the price they bargained at the Hob for _her_ catch as opposed to _his_, how long he had to teach her to set snares before she considered it a fair trade to give him one of her oh-so-precious bows. She was the most stubborn, argumentative, paranoid, distrustful person he'd ever met.

And she had the gall to accused him of being the exact same way!

Then, there was the other absurd yet very present reason being seen in the company of the Everdeen girl with this ever increasing frequency was becoming such a nuisance…

The thought of _that_ brought his previously arranged and far more consequential engagement to the forefront of his thoughts and he looked through the peephole to note the length the fading late day sun afforded the shadows cast by the surrounding trees. He had to bail to make it in time. Dismissing his vexing companion's last ignorant comment about the futility of schooling, he chose this moment to take his leave.

"Well, figures someone of your obvious intelligence would appreciate the merits of education." Okay, so he wasn't completely ignoring the stupidity of her comment so much as belittling her for it. He was fifteen, after all. He pointedly ignored the furious hole her eyes burned into the side of his skull as he lithely shifted on to his haunches, starting to edge up the corner of the blind before adding, "I have to go take care of something. Same time tomorrow?"

This threw the small teen for a loop and she furrowed her brow in a cross between disgruntlement and enmity as she followed him out of the bluff. Not expecting an entourage upon his departure, he paused to send an inquisitive look back at her over his shoulder. He had to choke back a snort at the expression on her face. She looked all of three when she was petulant.

"We haven't even checked the snare line, Gale. What could possibly be more important than that?"

For the second time in five minutes, the Hawthorne eldest found himself smiling patronizingly at the tiny raven-haired girl, who obstinately brought both arms to cross under where he figured she would some day have breasts. She really had no idea how young this pouting made her look, did she?

She was actually quite adorable.

However, he had no inclination to explain to this infant exactly why his appointment took so much more precedence today over checking a few snare lines. He wasn't her parent. He wasn't her older brother. He wasn't even her friend, not really. They were partners, mutually benefiting from a temporary arrangement. And she wasn't really young enough to be as naïve as she demonstrated to be about these kinds of things in the first place.

As far as he was concerned, whatever reason she had to exclude herself from normal teenage communion had nothing to do with him. He owed her nothing here. "It's cool enough that whatever's in the snares will keep 'til tomorrow. But, if you want to stay out here and check them, be my guest. Just don't cheat me out of my share if you go to the Hob after. As for what I find important or not…" he narrowed his eyes threateningly, "I have a life that doesn't involve what I do out here, Katniss – one that's honestly none of your business."

With that, he turned away, latched the felled wild bird to his belt by the neck and sauntered off in the direction of the fence, not bothering to look back at the thirteen-year-old he left behind.

The thirteen-year-old who adamantly tried to convince herself she didn't feel abandoned whatsoever at his impromptu departure.

She didn't need him to check the lines. She was fine on her own.

He _was not_ her friend.

* * *

"We're getting in so much trouble for this, Rory", the seven-year-old huffed out worriedly, struggling to maintain a proper grip with both his small hands on his side of the bucket handle.

His older brother snickered mischievously, winking at the younger boy as he tried to center his hand on the same handle, effectively taking more of the weight upon himself. "Nah, Vick. We're really just helping out Ma. You know she doesn't like Gale sneaking off with girls. You just be ready to run as fast as you can right after you let go, okay. Remember how I taught you to cut through the Mills' and Henricks' yards instead of running straight back. He can't catch us both if we run in separate directions. We run home to momma. He won't do nothing to us once he has to explain it to momma."

The youngest Hawthorne boy couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing something irrevocably wrong as he stared down anxiously at the bucket of filthy wash water they carried. Gale was going to be so sore at him for this. He didn't even know how Rory knew where they were going. How had his brother learned their oldest sibling had a girlfriend? Much less where he was meeting her and when?

He hated when Rory talked him into these things. They'd only ever managed to get them grounded. Honestly, why did he keep listening to his older brother's dumb ideas?

As they inched closer to the slagheap, he ventured a look back at his maniacally smiling older brother and had his answer. Rory came up with some weird ways of having fun with Gale. But, when he was doing these things, his brother actually looked… happy. And he was his big brother.

He missed him looking happy.

* * *

Running an aggravated hand through her waist-length, loose raven waves, the Seam girl let out an exasperated breath and started walking away from where he'd promised to meet her. She wasn't able to get four steps out before she felt two large hands descend on her eyes and felt warm breath next to her ear. "Guess who."

Suppressing the thrill having him so close shot through her system, the teen girl crossed her arms, doing an exceedingly good job at feigning aloofness. "I don't care who it is at this point, to be honest. The jerk I was waiting around for here for an entire hour, apparently thinks my time is less important than his. Either that, or he'd rather spend it with little girls out in the wilderness."

Letting his hands fall away from her eyes to her shoulders, Gale spun her so that she could meet his eye. Her consternated expression spoke volumes of just how hard he'd have to work to worm his way back into her good graces.

'_Perfect._'

He hated having to explain himself to the girls he was interested in. Everyone knew he was alone taking care of his family. Most people knew what he did to keep them fed. They also knew just how much he liked chitchat. And having to explain his impossibly awkward and uncomfortable arrangement with Katniss… He really didn't need _that_ drama, whatsoever. This is why he needed to stop hanging out with her. She was seriously cramping his style when it came to his personal life.

Deciding he wasn't in the mood to deal with any of that tonight, he let his arms drop to the girl's waist, simultaneously bringing her flush against him while merging their mouths in a searing kiss.

It worked for about thirty seconds before he felt her palms flat against his chest. She used them as leverage to forcefully wrench herself away, keeping her lips just out of reach while she schooled her hooded eyes into a glare. "Seriously, Gale, you know I have to be home before dark or my dad will kill me and you show up minutes before sundown because you'd rather be out beyond the fence-line with the Everdeen girl." It was obvious she tried to keep her tone nonchalant, but the slight hitch to her inflection by statement's end denounced the true nature of her jealous spite.

Huffing out a slow, defeated breath, the fifteen-year-old relented. He'd get nowhere if he didn't clear the air. "Believe me, Sorrel, I would much rather have been here with you the last hour than where I was. Katniss is…" he broke off, remembering his mother's lesson on never speaking derogatorily of a woman if he could help it. Once, he'd come up with the best description for the healer's daughter, his lip quirked up and he finished. "Katniss is exactly like Posy to me."

One eyebrow rose on the thin Seam girl's face, a clear indication of her skepticism. "Your baby sister is a toddler, Gale", she huffed in a clearly unimpressed tone.

Twitching up an eyebrow of his own to drive his point home, shortening the distance between them once again, the Hawthorne teen grinned inappropriately and responded a simple "Exactly."

The young woman had a split second to answer that grin with an understanding smirk of her own before his lips were on hers again with such urgency, he'd managed to back them both into the inclined heap behind. They were now effectively semi-laying/semi-standing, braced against the mountain of coal waste bi-product and very much oblivious to the world around them due to their present undertaking.

They would've happily remained that way, too, were it not for the nearly freezing moisture that started saturating them from above about a minute into the kiss. Not only did the onslaught force the panic-stricken, disoriented teens apart. It also forced a slew of deprecations from the Hawthorne teenager the likes of which his counterpart had never even imagined.

She stared addled at the enraged teenager who was staring above them, screaming at the top of his lungs, "You're both dead! The minute I get my hands on you, you're dead! You hear me, runts! Yeah, you better run!"

The young Seam girl wiped her stinging eyes (What was in that water?) and looked up and to the far left to catch a blur of dark, laughing hair disappear around the mound they rested against. Then, she looked down and shrieked in horror. The water had caused the coal to run into a murky sludge and stain her clothes completely. There was no way her father wouldn't know where she'd been the moment she got home. She was so grounded.

She turned furious eyes on the boy beside her, allowing the indignation she felt at her impending condemnation to color her inflection. "Thanks a lot for the great time, Gale. My dad won't let me go anywhere but school for lord-knows-how-long now. You really know how to show a girl a heck of a time." She shoved off the wall, storming away in the direction of her home but not before throwing caustically over her shoulder for good measure, "Oh, and believe me, everyone I know is going to hear about this."

The steel-eyed teen allowed but a second for her words to sink in before springing to his feet, vehement anger blinding him to exactly where he was going. He just knew his baby brothers had to physically ache for this. Something in the back of his mind screamed for him to stop, calm down, he wasn't supposed to hurt them…

He adamantly told whatever that was to shove it.

* * *

All but ripping off the door, Gale raged into his small home.

In actuality, if he'd ventured the moment to notice, he'd managed to dislodge the already age-ravaged wooden opening from the top hinge.

However, he could hardly be bothered with something as trifling as carpentry when he had the much more pressing matter of engaging in fratricide to attend to.

He was stopped dead mid-rampage when his steel eyes settled on his mother, standing ramrod straight with arms crossed under her breast and leveling an almost challenging, icy glare back at him. She stood ten feet in front of him in their small kitchen and deliberately skimmed her gaze analytically down his body from head to toe, one eyebrow remaining raised in a cross between intrigue and bemusement that made the teenager swallow uncomfortably.

Finding it increasingly harder to keep from visibly squirming under his mother's scrutiny, the teen ventured a look around the small living area in an effort to assuage his fraying nerves. His eyes instantly narrowed venomously upon landing on his younger brothers sitting at the kitchen table, apparently doing homework. Vick was chewing at one of his nails - a habit he'd taken to when he was especially anxious or crestfallen - and Rory was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

The Hawthorne eldest was instantly assured who the ringleader in the little fiasco at the slagheap was. Not that he really had much doubt. His baby brother didn't posses a single ill-intentioned bone in his body, where the second youngest had a mean streak and warped sense of humor that verged on sociopathic at times since their Pa's passing. Were he in a more stable state of mind himself, he might actually feel sorry for the nine-year-old. But as it stood, all he saw this as was the reason Rory was getting the belt while Vick would get off with a mere spanking.

The serotonin-induced euphoria the vision of his retribution upon his younger siblings evoked was cut short by the sound of his mother clucking her tongue, which caused him to snap his eyes back to lock with hers. He found that same cotton-mouth sensation returning. But, for the life of him, he couldn't swallow. Why couldn't he swallow? For that matter, why couldn't he look away for his mother's face? It was like she had him in a trance.

Hazelle cocked her head slightly, allowing only a tinge of the spectacular amusement she was choking back at the present situation to glint in her light silver eyes as she stated in an authoritarian voice, "Baby boy, you look like you've been rollin' in muck. Now, I've boiled some nice hot water for ya and drawn a bath. Strip off all those filthy clothes and go soak for a while, scrub yourself clean. It'll help you clear your head."

The intensity in the Hawthorne matriarch's glare as she worded this, spoke volumes of it not being the motherly suggestion it might resonate as to the untrained ear. This was an order… and order with consequences if gone unheeded.

Gale finally found the fortitude to break her stare. His eyes diverted briefly to the floor before they shot back to where his brothers were seated, narrowing once more in anger.

"Gale, the longer you stand there, the bigger that puddle of mud under you that you'll have to clean up later gets. Did I not make myself clear, boy?" No one missed the menacing undertone in that one.

With an aggravated huff, the fifteen-year-old turned away from his younger brothers violently, dashing for the small washroom toward the back of the dwelling, already pulling his shirt over his head without bothering to undo the buttons. He shot over his shoulder begrudgingly as he went, "No, ma'am. I understood you perfectly."

Once her oldest was out of the room and the door was shut behind him, Hazelle turned a withering frown on her second oldest who still wore an entirely inappropriate grin.

"Rory, baby, I appreciate the help and all… but we're definitely going to have to find you a hobby, sweetie."

* * *

**A/N: I did not think I would enjoy writing this one as much as I ultimately enjoyed it. I have a lot of ideas for this fic, but I have so little time to write and my ideas are so scattered so if anyone could leave me suggestions in a review, I would really, really appreciate it.**

**Please Review!**


	6. Penny For Your Thoughts

**This goes out to Anla'Shok who gave me excellent suggestions as to how to proceed with this. Once again, apologies for the extremely late update. Life gets in the way of living.**

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins. **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

That was new.

New and decidedly, inconveniently _annoying_.

Gale had been out scavenging and setting snares with his father on more occasions than he could recollect since the age of four and he'd never encountered this particular situation. That meant that – because the universe appeared bent on punishing him for some, as of yet, unknown to him transgression – when for the first time ever in his lifetime, the fence surrounding his home district was electrified during the daytime… Of course, the phenomenon had to occur while he was trapped on the other side with the world's most infuriating thirteen-year-old cynic.

Said delightful company had nearly walked to her certain death, courtesy of the aforementioned barrier, too, had it not been for his yanking her arm – admittedly, probably harder than was called for and with schadenfreude satisfaction – once he noticed the odd humming at the last moment. Nevertheless, considering she'd be a melting corpse on chain link otherwise, he hardly felt she was justified in the litany of expletives she'd launched at him.

He didn't feel particularly deserving of the sneer or silent treatment he was being treated to at present either, as they sat on a sturdy, thick branch in an oak ten yards from the fence, waiting to see if the thing turned off so they could creep back home. They couldn't stay on the ground any closer, where they were easily visible to Peacekeepers passing by. Here, they had a relatively safe resting place to wait out the next power outage, camouflaged by the tree's thick foliage.

Finally, feeling his sanity growing too thin to successfully suppress the urge to shove her off her perch on the branch, the older teen chose to be the adult and try to make some sort of amends. "You know, you would've died if I hadn't grabbed you away from that fence, Catnip. The least you can do is talk to me."

The tiny girl blew a strand of hair that had strayed in front of her left eye away from her face, but otherwise did not change her ornery expression. "I'm not deaf. A simple "Look out" would've worked just as well as dislocating my shoulder. I have to shoot with that arm." She looked away toward the fence; rubbing absently at what the older teen suspected was a growing bruise on her shoulder.

When she continued, her voice had grown distant and the teenager got the distinct impression she was no longer speaking to him so much as to herself. She was all but murmuring. He had to strain to make out what she said. "We don't even have the right weather for snow for a compress. I could try to get some ice from Rooba, maybe…"

Dark brows furrowing in confusion, Gale didn't spare a second thought before blurting out, "Just have your mom make you something for it. If anyone can fix up a bruised should-" He found himself unable to continue as she snapped her head back to lock eyes with him, a broken lost look he couldn't understand in those eyes that were almost identical to his.

"Mom needs her remedies for her patients," came her simple response, voiced in a raspy, vulnerable intonation so unlike anything he'd heard from her in the six months they'd been partnered up in their mutual endeavor to feed their families. He could scarcely believe the obstinate girl he'd been coming out to the woods with was even capable of such a meek sound.

He found himself blinking at her dumbly until she furrowed her brows, obviously berating herself for inadvertently baring so much to him, before she tore her face away to look back toward the fence with a sniff and swift wipe at her nose with the back of her sleeve.

Realization struck him that she never spoke of her mother. Well, she barely spoke at all. But, what little she ever did say, always revolved around either their task at hand or something involving her sister. She never mentioned the healer.

He was certain the woman was alive. He'd seen her once or twice, the couple times he'd gone to Katniss' home to settle with her after a trip to the Hob after either he or she was unable to be present during the trading for some reason or another. The woman had looked gaunt and withdrawn, but decidedly extant, as she'd sat in a chair in the kitchen the entire time he'd been there. And, who didn't look emaciated and depressed in the Seam? However, as he continued to stare at the braid of the girl who adamantly tried to hide her flushed face from his view, there was something – a sixth sense maybe – that told him there was something very wrong in the Everdeen household, a burden Katniss was trying to shoulder on her own… something that either pride or fear wouldn't allow her to voice… something that caused her a lot of pain.

He found himself at a loss.

He wasn't good with words. He'd never found them particularly useful beyond haggling a fair deal in a trade. That didn't require much eloquence in either the Hob or at the back door of Merchants, most of whom wanted the deal sealed and him off their property before his presence became too conspicuous to their neighbors and they became the new hot topic of gossip.

In spite of this, however, he couldn't ignore the slow churn that started in his gut the moment he noted the broken look in the tiny girl's eyes, the unbidden sob in her voice. The sudden realization the he actually felt compassion for her was shock enough, but the fact that this empathy was somehow compelling him to vocalize his concern was impossibly even more dismaying.

"I miss my dad."

He cringed. The words had left his lips autonomously, before he'd had a chance to consider the effect they might have. Considering the way she turned back to look at him with her brows furrowed in a befuddled scowl, he'd say the effect was her assuming he was a slow-witted freak. Then again, he doubted she thought much more highly of him prior to the outburst, so he figured he might as well elaborate. "I mean, I miss him all the time, Catnip. It sucks that I have to this all the time now." He gestured expansively around them to accentuate their predicament just that much more.

Then, his voice grew low and somber with a hint of sadness as he continued, "I worry about everyone. Posy has a cough. I'm hoping she'll get over it before it gets any cooler or we'll lose her this winter. Rory is getting into trouble in school- _a lot_. It's like his whole personality changed since Pa died or something. He used to be such a sweet kid, animate- innocent. Now he's just so…" he paused here to run a hand through his hair raggedly, "He's become so… withdrawn. I think he only hangs out with Vick anymore- and maybe Prim?" He couldn't help shaking his head sadly at the thought of his second youngest brother. The kid seemed lost in his own mind most of the time and he had no idea how to rescue him.

His eyes connected with those of the younger girl before him as he finished with a huff. "Then, there's Vick. Funny, charming, adorable, Vick. He's managed to stay him, as far as personalities go. But, I think he's hiding something from me, too. And I think Rory's helping him. It's as if I've lost control of everything and I can't, Katniss. I have to take care of them. I promised my mother I'd take care of them… I promised _him_. God! I miss him so much. Every day." By the time he was done speaking, he could feel the tears pricking at the back of his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't let them fall.

He was stronger than that. He was certainly strong enough to keep from tearing up in front of the likes of Katniss Everdeen. He was surprised he'd even told her as much as he had. He'd just needed to get all that off his chest and thought that she might appreciate it after she'd looked so downtrodden at her own lot. Then again, the more he analyzed it, the more he figured venting to her wasn't particularly compromising to his ego. She was the most introverted person he'd ever met. Who would she even tell? He'd never seen her exchange all of three words with anyone that didn't involve her family's subsistence in some way. If his moment of weakness was safe with anyone, it was definitely her.

He was wrenched out of his brief reverie by her response. His eyes roved to her face, but she was still adamantly keeping her eyes glued to the limb they shared. Her voice was hard with an edge of vindictiveness, the nature of which he could not fathom. "Mom just gave up on everything when dad died, Gale." Here, her eyes darted to lock with his in a glare so intense, he would describe it as feral. "She gave up on me and Prim. She let us starve to death. She forgot about us. She forgot about everything. Nothing mattered to her anymore and we were part of that nothing. She wanted to die and she didn't care if we went with her."

When the gasp registered, the fifteen-year-old hadn't even realized it had emerged from somewhere in his own throat. He'd known things were bad for the healer, but he'd never imagined…

Then, part of what she said fully registered, nagging at the back of his mind and he found himself inquiring, "Wait, but you didn't starve. You came out here. This is where I found you. Did your mom snap out of it and start taking care of you guys?"

Gale noticed a blush so furious, it registered even through the dark skin of Katniss' neck rush up from there to her cheeks before she swiftly turned her face away in the direction of the fence again. He didn't have time to delve into why his question would cause that kind of reaction before he heard her respond nonchalantly, her voice strained with the attempt to keep it level. "Mom has gotten better the last few months since I began hunting. She's cooking and cleaning again. She's taking care of Prim and taking patients again. That's why I forage for plants whenever I can. You know, to keep her stocked and all…"

The older teen thought that was all she had to say on the matter until he heard her add as an afterthought, once again sounding as if the information was meant more for her own benefit than his, "But, she's not the reason I came out here. She's not the reason I didn't starve…"

"…Only one person helped me back then."

The obvious follow-up question was on the tip of Gale's tongue when she suddenly turned, bright-eyed and excited- obviously eager to let the previous conversation ebb. "Listen! The buzzing stopped. The fence is down. Let's get down from here. I need to get home. Prim will be worried sick."

He would've pried more out of her, were it not for the fact that she was presently climbing over him on her way down the tree. Whether she stepped on his spleen on purpose or not as she made her way around him with amazing dexterity, he had a feeling he'd never know. Though, considering what he'd grown to recognize was quite the resentful nature in the diminutive teenager, he had a feeling he could consider that retribution for pulling on her arm a few hours before.

A smirk found its way to his august features as he watched her swinging braid, following close behind her through the meadow on their way to the Seam.

Yes. She had to be the most annoying, pain-in-the-butt he'd ever met in his life.

She was the strangest person he'd ever thought of as a friend.

* * *

**A/N: I planned to make this longer, but I haven't updated in so long, I figured something short and sweet would be a little appreciated. Also, I have absolutely no compunction with Galeniss as it was established in canon. I think their friendship was sweet. I have an idea where I want to go with the next one, but suggestion are always more than appreciated… I'm looking at YOU Anla' If you liked this one…**

**Please Review!**


	7. Penny For Your Thoughts- Part Deux

**A/N: This is basically my version of normal Prim/Rory interaction. I like both these characters a lot, so I wanted to dedicate one of these to just them.**

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"You'd think someone raised by a proper Merchant woman would know better than to stare at people. Anyone ever point out that you're rude?"

Prim brought one elbow up to prop on the table, pointedly ignoring the comment from the boy sitting next to her as she reclined her cheek on a fist in an almost bored fashion and brought the other hand up to cup his jaw gingerly. He made a sound of protest deep in his throat and stiffened as she tilted his face closer to her securitizing cornflower eyes, but otherwise, did not offer more resistance.

He knew better.

Years of hard-learned experience had taught him resistance was futile.

If Primrose Everdeen was inclined to "examine" you… Primrose Everdeen was going to examine you. Once, when they'd both been nine, she'd actually poisoned him with some kind of weed that rendered his entire body unresponsive for hours to accomplish the feat. Of course, she'd excused the violation as extreme measures to realign a dislocated shoulder he vehemently refused to allow anyone near, but still… He decidedly _never_ needed an encore of _that_ experience.

"I thought you were going to stop picking fights. The boys on the team aren't even supposed to be coming after you anymore. If you keep goading them on, you're going to get them in trouble", she chastised almost flippantly with a click of her tongue.

"Not to mention, you're going to get in trouble with your mom for _this_, again." She purposely applied pressure to the blossoming bruise just below his lower lip to make her point and he flinched reflexively at the sudden burst of pain. "The cut on your lip is going to get infected if you don't keep it clean, but at least it's not deep enough for stitches." She released his face with a slow outtake of breath, her brows furrowing in a annoyed frustration as she stood up to leave the cafeteria before she was late for class.

She turned back to chance a final look over her shoulder at him before walking out. He didn't turn to meet her eyes but he could see her out of his periphery. He knew she was looking at him with those infuriatingly astute, achingly beautiful blue eyes- very likely smiling.

She'd been condemning and assuaging simultaneously in that infuriating way she always managed to, in that way that never felt like pity- that way that never felt like judgment.

He loathed it. He craved it.

He'd had a sneaking suspicion for a while this idiosyncrasy was at the core of why he still instigated altercations with odds stacked so impossibly against him, they were laughable.

There was something unspeakably wrong with him, wasn't there?

He barely registered that the abrupt sound in the now-empty cafeteria was his forehead making a very violent impact with the table.

Perfect, another bruise for _her_ to psychoanalyze while trying to hold back a giggle.

He couldn't help it when one edge of his lip quirked upward.

* * *

"Hey! I could've walked into a wall."

The blonde looked up from the homework she'd started on while waiting for her friends to join her in order to make the trek home together to send a quizzical look up at one of said friends who'd just arrived, apparently bent on rambling randomness.

"Don't look at me like that. You assumed these are from fighting." He pointed at the worsening bruises on his face. "I could've just as easily walked into a door or a wall or tripped. You automatically assumed the worst. I'm insulted. You think very poorly of me, you know."

While he'd been speaking, Prim _had_ tried. She'd bit the inside of her cheek as hard as she could without hurting herself. By statement end, however, she could no longer contain the bubbling laughter that erupted from her.

The ludicrousness of it… he was actually standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, doing the worst attempt ever at feigning dismay. He was even pouting or, at least, what she believed he thought passed for a fair simile. Rory hadn't 'pouted' in years. The gesture looked strained and foreign on his too-mature features. He looked so… awkward.

What could she do but just outright laugh? Here was a boy a head and a half taller than her, trying to mimic a petulant three-year-old. She was only human.

In response to his inpatient, annoyed huff at her amusement, she wiped at her eyes and managed a weakly squeaked, "So, what? You were somehow suddenly struck dumb, blind and inexplicably uncoordinated? I would stick to the fighting story if anyone asks, Rory. That at least has a ring of dignity to it." She hadn't meant for it to come out half as condescending as it had. She really hadn't.

He narrowed his eyes into a withering glare before splaying himself down on the grass directly beside her. "You may have everyone else in this district fooled, but I know better. You're evil."

This was rewarded with a renewed bout of lyrical laughter that he obstinately told himself _was not _the reason his stomach suddenly felt like it weighed three times as much as he did.

* * *

"Are you afraid it'll be you?"

It was barely audible and laced with a fear so primal, it almost change the very inflection of her voice. It caught him so off guard, he had to fight the urge to snap his head sideways at her. It would do her no service to gawk at her when she was feeling this vulnerable- not that he knew what else to do, though.

Everyone was being weird.

The Reaping was twenty-three days away and not even the idiots on the team could be bothered with throwing decent left hook. They all brushed off his hard-thought insults with blank – or worse, condoling – stares. They could all shove those. He didn't need their pity. He needed an outlet. He needed to vent. He needed to hit something hard or he was going to freaking explode.

With no undo effort, he shoved the growing frustration that line of thinking had engendered deep into wherever it had surfaced from and tried to refocus on the question his best friend had just asked.

It was obviously loaded. The girl needed more than just his answer. She was searching for reassurance. But, what use was he to her in that department? They were in the same particular boat. And, he was little more than an emotional retard. She of all people knew this. She knew him better than anyone did. Why was she putting him on the spot now of all times?

He took a centering breath and considered her inquiry. He ruminated briefly what he felt about his predicament. He'd tried not to dwell on it, finding it pointless to agonize over what was ultimately out of his control. But, she'd always tried for _him_. _She'd_ _always_ been there for him. He was acutely aware of the dividend owed.

He would not deceive her, however. She deserved far better than that.

Turning slowly to face her and giving her time enough to meet his steady gaze with her own unsure and glassed-over one, he began in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could muster for her sake, "The more I think about it, the more worried I am it will be Gale getting called up on that stage than me, Prim." When her expression changed from fear to confused despair, he fumbled to elaborate quickly, "I mean, I'm twelve. He's never let me take out tesserae. He's got his name in there dozens of times and if he goes in there and dies, we all likely starve. So, yeah, I'm going to say I'm much more scared of Gale getting called this year than me. I'm only one less mouth if I go in and I can at least make a sport out of it before someone takes me out, right?" He tried to punctuate the morbidly ill-timed joke with a bump to her shoulder with his own and a half smirk that reached nowhere near his eyes.

Needless to say, both failed miserably.

Prim brought both hands up to cover her face as the previously threatening tears began flowing.

Panicking and at loss, the silver-eyed boy dashed a quick look around their surroundings, scouting for help. Not that he honestly believed he'd find it. Aside spotting his younger brother and sister playing a game of tag several yards off, they were alone in the field. Most people didn't stay out in the meadow that late. The only reason they were out there at all was that Prim had insisted on waiting out her older sister and his older brother for some yet-unknown reason and she'd wanted company. Of course, the moment he'd mentioned this, his mother had forced him to bring his two human anchors along for the ride.

Tentatively, he moved the hand that hand been crossed over his bent knees to his best friend's back, uncouthly rubbing it up and down. He had no cognition what he was doing, but his mother did this when he was in a particularly dour mood. It helped… sometimes.

Without warning, Prim suddenly wrapped both arms around him, continuing to sob into his chest. Through hiccupped whimpers, she tried to speak. She sounded so lost, so broken. He found himself subconsciously cradling her closer, the circles he rubbed on her back growing more pronounced. "God, Rory. I must really be an awful person, because I'm terrified I'll be called. I know it's more likely it would be Katniss and I'd die if it were her, but I'm still terrified it'll be me. It's all I think about now. I can't even sleep anymore. I'm so selfish. I should be worried for Katniss like you're worried for Gale. Why can't I stop being afraid?"

This took him aback and he had to spare a moment to process it before staying the hand on her back and moving it to her shoulder to gain her attention. Once she was looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, he deadpanned sincerely, "I don't feel things the same way you do, Prim. I wish I did, but I don't. Fear is supposed to be good. It's a self-preservative emotion. The fact that I don't feel a high enough level of anxiety - heck, of anything, really - right now, is probably telling of just how screwed up I am. There's nothing wrong with you. You're supposed to be afraid- everyone else is. I'm just wired wrong."

In spite of herself, she couldn't help the small snort that escaped her at his admission. Somehow, his words mitigated the dread within her just enough. Rory was usually able to get her out of the worse of her moods- usually by doing or saying something completely inadvertent like he'd just done. Without giving herself the time to second-guess the action, she used their proximity to land a sound kiss on his chin before moving back to her seated position beside him.

She quickly turned away so he couldn't see the blush she felt heating its way up her neck to decorate her face as she silently ventured, "Thanks, Rory. That really helped. You're a good friend."

Of course, she might as well have said anything for all that concerned the slack-jawed Hawthorne boy beside her.

Nope. All that ran through Rory's frazzled mind as his hand came up to absently, rub his chin was:

'_Oh, god! Did Primrose Everdeen really just kiss me?'_

* * *

**A/N: I've been rattling this one in my head for months. I just updated this like twice in two weeks. I'm shocked. XD Hopefully, I can get the next one out soon. If you liked this one…**

**Please Review!**


	8. I See You In A Different Light

**A/N: This one's going out to raissa20, who has supported this story from the very beginning and made a specific request for it. She's been very patiently waiting for it and I hope both she and everyone else who reads finds it was worth the wait.  
**

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Hazelle eyed the jar of salve in her cracked, aching hand almost longingly. She could already feel the relief its contents plighted. She had to force her eyes away from the thing to focus on the slight girl standing beside her wash bin, presently being treated to a demonstration of her little Posy's flower wreath making prowess. Her baby girl was so excited; she was climbing the healer's daughter so that the older girl could have a better look at her masterpiece.

"So, just how much is this gonna set us back?"

Katniss looked up from the toddler attempting to scuttle up her legs to the woman; her expression brightening with that irrefutable pride Hazelle had come to recognize in her, the one that only appeared when she'd made a trade she thought was especially note-worthy. "A mink pelt. You should've seen this thing, Hazelle. She was beautiful. Gale snared her a few weeks back. She wandered into one of his beaver lines by the stream. She had her full winter coat and everything. I have no idea why she was even out this far, or out at all this time of year- maybe got turned around or something. But, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."

Upon hearing those words, the woman's expression fell along with her silver eyes to the jar of medicine in her hand, her jaw tightening reflexively. The winter had been harsh and a pelt like that could've gotten them a bounty to weather it.

Katniss noted the woman's change in demeanor and instantly bristled, her defenses coming up. How could this woman ever think she would shortchange her on a trade? Immediately, she felt compelled to espouse herself. "It's a fair trade. All the ingredients in that," she gestured emphatically at the jar in the Hawthorne matriarch's hand, "had to be gathered before the first snow fell, most months before. And, there's enough there for this entire winter and probably most of next year. I had to forage for months, whenever I could, for enough comfrey roots, witch hazel, lemon balm leaves and a dozen other ingredients for mom to make this much. You know we've never been able to make this much before. The trade is fair."

An eyebrow shot up on Hazelle's face as she leveled her gaze on the teenager. She kept her voice authoritative, but allowed a tinge of amused lenity to color it. "No one said anythin' to the contrary, child. Stop bein' so darn sensitive." She then rolled her eyes away from the girl whose neck was visibly tingeing crimson as she scowled at the floor toward her son, who had just entered from his bedroom and, if the self-indulgent grin on his face was any sign, had caught her exchange with his best friend.

"We need other things this winter, Gale. Things like butter, blankets. Rory shot up another good three inches this past year alone. He needs boots. We can't indulge in this kinds of-"

She was unable to finish when her oldest took both her hands in his far larger ones, palms up, shaking them slightly as he spoke with finality, "There's no practicality in washing clothes when you're bleeding right into the wash water from your hands, Ma. The medicine is not debatable. I'll figure something out for whatever else we need. I always do."

With that, he planted a quick kiss to her forehead, just below her hairline before dropping her hands and shoving the fifteen-year-old lightly on her shoulder to get her following.

Just before they made it through the threshold into the biting cold, Hazelle shot over her shoulder in an unabashedly conspiratorial, singsong tone, "Thank your mom for the salve, Katniss. It better work miracles for what you made us pay for it."

Her knowingly grinning son quickly shoved the tiny girl out into the snow before she could catch more than an outraged gasp and she snickered to herself, turning back to her work.

She fancied the retort had been very _colorful_.

* * *

"It's all calculated, Catnip. Nothing that goes on here is random. Everything is set up to favor _them_."

He didn't have to venture a look beside him in the cramped bluff to know the girl was likely frowning and/or rolling her eyes. He couldn't possibly care less. He was hungry, tired and freezing. Not that he would vocalize any of these discomforts aloud, but they were present, nonetheless. And, they were making him irritable. The fact that their reconnaissance of their snare lines had come out pitifully unrewarding and that they'd accomplished little more in the two hours they'd spent hunting following, was decidedly not helping his dour mood.

"This is why I'm always telling you to get along with the Merchant kids better. It's not just about making the trades. This whole divide they try to perpetuate between us? It plays in their favor. If they keep us from getting along in our own district, we'll never be strong enough to stand up to them. They'll always have the upper hand."

She finally shifted fully in order to burn her glare into his periphery. "Have you looked at Rory's right eye lately, Gale? The Merchants are snobs- abusive snobs. They're not exactly interested in playing nice with me or the rest of the Seam. So, I say they can rot beyond the few who are decent enough to trade with. If they're not useful to us, they're just an annoying waste of space. And, stand up to who with what, Gale? We're the most backwater district there is. I'm not forcing interaction with people I can't stand in the hopes of forming some delusional alliance that will get me shot for my stupidity, thank you."

Shifting his eyes away from the swirling snow beyond their hideout, which was steadily growing in both quantity and intensity, he narrowed them into a derisive sneer while snorting flatly, "Madge isn't like that. For god-only-knows-what-reason she actually likes being around _you_." He couldn't help the smirk that edged one end of his mouth when her glare turned into a heated sneer after that. "And there are a few others in town like her who don't care where any of us happen to be born. You're over-simplifying and you're still wrong. There's strength in numbers. They know that and that's why they make sure the poorest in the Seam have to take more and more tesserae, guaranteeing themselves a trip to the Games. The folk who have to stand by and watch their kids get slaughtered year after year will always resent those whose odds are always slightly better, Catnip. As long as they keep the Seam starving and the Merchants can eat, more people will think like you and the Capitol will always have the edge. It's a vicious cycle."

He ran his hand up under the wool cap he wore in order to scratch his hair before looking away and finishing in an exasperated huff. "And using Rory as an argument in this is low, by the way. He's not exactly choosy about who he picks fights with. Anyone's fair game when he's in one of his moods. It just so happens to be the guys on the team have been catering to his need for self-destruction so long they've become his preferred outlet... and most of them happen to be Merchant..."

Noting the anguished, lost look that flashed behind the older boy's eyes, as he looked away, Katniss chose not to pursue the topic further. There was no point in flogging her friend over things he was helpless to change. Instead, she nudged him with her shoulder, gesturing toward the howling wind beyond the small opening before them. "We really need to get out of this before it gets any worse."

As if realizing where he was suddenly, Gale snapped his eyes up at what she pointed out and huffed.

"Yeah, this was a bust. Let's go to the Hob and see if we can salvage anything of this day."

* * *

The wizened elderly woman chuckled to herself as she stirred the contents of the large cast iron cauldron suspended over the wood fire behind the unassuming stall in a corner of the old warehouse. "Only the two of you could possibly consider going out in _that_. Consider yourselves fortunate you didn't die of frostbite or catch yourselves pneumonia out there. You certainly shouldn't be griping about coming back with a lean haul."

Gale brought his hands down from over his face, where he'd been rubbing them in frustration. "Yes. Well, tell that to my mother and brothers, Sae. This winter's been rough. I _need_ to do better than this."

The older woman put a commiserating hand on his shoulder, placing a bowl of soup before him. A remark about the simple fact that there was nothing to be had out in the woods in the middle of a blizzard was on the tip of her tongue when there was a raucous at the opposite end of her stall and the teenager stood from his hunched position over the counter to move closer to the healer's daughter. She seemed to be at the epicenter of the commotion.

The teenager moved tacitly closer to where a small cluster of Peacekeepers had congregated near Greasy Sae's stall. He doubted they were there for the soup. Her offering that day was an especially objectionable week-old wild dog bone broth. The only reason he partook was the biting cold and the hollowness of his stomach. These Peacekeepers could afford better and, judging by the thickness of their white winter coats, the cold would not be a mitigating factor in their decision to have some.

As he crept beside where Katniss sat cross-legged on Sae's counter, keeping a respectable distance where he could hear the discourse while appearing as nonthreatening as possible to the heavily armed law enforcers, he noted all three were relatively 'friendly' faces. He made out Purnia, attempting to stifle laughter behind her hand as she braced herself against another laughing officer whose name he'd never bothered learning… likely to keep herself from falling over. She looked pretty inebriated.

He shifted his eyes from them to the third Peacekeeper, who was leaning on the post of the stall nearest his best friend. He seemed to be the source of the entertainment for the other two.

His mind could not reconcile why, but he wanted nothing more than to ram the man's head into the ground the moment his eyes registered what he was doing. He shook his head quickly, adamantly, to dislodge the urge as he interloped on the conversation.

He actually _liked_ Darius. Well… he'd always liked him before that day, anyway…

"Come on, Katniss. One kiss. One rabbit." The ginger smirked in a seductively dubious way, tickling the teenage girl with tip of her own braid while he winked back at his colleagues.

Gale buried his hands in his pockets so quickly, he was afraid he'd torn clear through on his left. It was the best he could come up with to quell the sudden overwhelming need to wrap them around young red-head's neck and squeeze until something snapped.

Katniss laughed along with the other law officers and swatted his hand away from her face, blessedly oblivious as to any duplicitous intent in the actions of the still-grinning older man. He spoke with an air of over-inflated, self-appointed arrogance. "You know what they say about us boys with red hair, right Katniss?" He pointed at his deep scarlet locks as he continued, "This is pure fire, right here. We know how to warm the girls up right, if you get my meaning."

Another wink and, unpremeditatedly, the Seam hunter's psyche dredged up a mental picture of him gauging both Darius' eyes out. He found himself frantically trying to shake the image back into whatever dark recess it'd slithered out of with a very discomfited shudder.

What was _wrong_ with him?

Darius leaned forward as if whispering conspiratorially, only he spoke even more boisterously, "Heck, considering how cold it is, you should pay me _two_ rabbits for a proper kiss… warm you right through the night. Ain't that right ladies?" He gestured expansively with his hand, pointing out several women in the Hob who could supposedly collaborate his allegation, insinuating they had all paid far more than a rabbit for the benefits of his company.

At this point, Gale's displeasure at the exchange had grown into full-blown rage. He had no inkling why it irked him so. Darius was being… well, Darius. And he'd always found his admittedly bawdy humor entertaining in the past. But, there was something about Katniss being the butt of this particular set of jokes that sat all kinds of wrong with him. The kind of wrong that was twisting his innards and causing the blood in his veins to boil. He didn't feel cold anymore. He felt very little beyond very myopic ill intent at the young Peacekeeper, honestly.

With a final shove against Darius' chest, Katniss propelled herself off the counter, moving swiftly in the direction of the warehouse entrance. She stopped by her best friend to shove him lightly in the arm so he could follow before moving on, throwing back over her shoulder at the laughing group of Peacekeepers, "I'll take your word for it, Darius, but I can't spare the rabbit. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone to warm with those 'amazing lips' of yours, though."

She continued to snicker to herself as she made her way across the large warehouse, once again blind to the steel eyes that scrutinized her wake.

Gale couldn't stop analyzing her as she moved toward the entrance. He was trying to figure out why, however. Why had that little spectacle bothered him? She handled it. She always handled it. She never even noticed it- not the underlying meanings of it, anyway. She could take care of herself.

Heck, she took care of herself, her mother, her sister…

So, why was he still staring at her as if he'd never seen her before in his life? Why did it matter that Darius was a vulgar pig to her? He was a vulgar pig, period… a funny one, at that.

God, why was he still staring at her? Why was he noticing she weaved through the amassed, crowded people in the huge building without so much, as grazing them- so graceful? Why could he not stop the fluttering in his stomach at the sound of her muffled snickering, coming from a few paces ahead? Why was he wishing it wasn't so freaking cold so she didn't have to wear that humongous coat that she practically swam in, so he could he could catch a glimpse of _some_ portion of her ski-"

He literally stopped mid-thought, eyes widening as the crush of the realization hit him.

_'Oh, no ,no ,no ,no ,no, Hawthorne! You need **this **like you need another hole in your head! Like you don't have enough to deal with…'_

Once he finally accomplished the unnecessarily arduous task of getting his shock numb limbs to cooperate, he joined her at the door.

She was swaddling herself in as much of her father's old coat as she could to shield herself from the whistling wind beyond. She was nothing to look at, really. She was tiny. He couldn't possibly…

The moment he reached her side, Katniss looked away from the opening and her face warped from a scowling grimace to brilliant smile. "Ready to go?"

_'Nope'_

"Yeah, sure."

The smile still lit her expression as she shuddered dramatically (adorably), venturing out into the whipping snow in the direction of her home.

Gale's shoulders slumped and he watched her for a split second before following almost dejectedly.

Yup. She was nothing. There was nothing there. They were just best friends like they'd always been.

...He was so screwed.

* * *

**A/N: Please, remember that I'm taking suggestions of scenes anyone wants written from the books for this work. I've been looking forward to writing this one for a while. I really enjoyed it. I thought it would be longer, but was pleasantly surprised when I got everything I wanted to say into a fairly short snippet. I'm sorry it took so long to get out. If you liked it...**

**Please Review!**


End file.
